


Sidelined

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Game Theory [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Autistic Sherlock, Case Fic, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Multi, Rehabilitation, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 42,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Author's Note: This is the sequel to Collateral Damage. If you want to know how Sherlock came to be injured, and the circumstances that lead to Mycroft taking on Moriarty, then read it first. But it can be read on its own.  It seems a rite of passage for authors in this fandom- the sickfic. While I have enjoyed reading a lot of great stories in this genre (Beautiful Fictions's Electric Pink Hand Grenade being my all-time favourite, closely followed by Kate221b's Madness and Memory), most others are (in my view) unrealistic about both the length of time it takes to recover from a significant injury, and the psychological effects of such an injury. So readers beware; this is about pain, both physical and mental. I am hugely indebted for medical input from Kate221b, but all mistakes are my own.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is the sequel to Collateral Damage. If you want to know how Sherlock came to be injured, and the circumstances that lead to Mycroft taking on Moriarty, then read it first. But it can be read on its own. It seems a rite of passage for authors in this fandom- the sickfic. While I have enjoyed reading a lot of great stories in this genre (Beautiful Fictions's Electric Pink Hand Grenade being my all-time favourite, closely followed by Kate221b's Madness and Memory), most others are (in my view) unrealistic about both the length of time it takes to recover from a significant injury, and the psychological effects of such an injury. So readers beware; this is about pain, both physical and mental. I am hugely indebted for medical input from Kate221b, but all mistakes are my own.

_Dry._ His mouth was so dry. His tongue moved instinctively, trying to find some saliva somewhere.  _Mistake_ . Bruised and sore, the movement felt most peculiar. He willed his tongue to stop moving in the hope that the feeling would go away. Something in the back of his throat felt just so  _odd._  He swallowed.  _Pain_ . Yes, something definitely wrong with his throat. Sore and bruised, too, with something pressing very awkwardly.

Noises, but he couldn't make sense of what they were or what they meant. He was being moved, felt his balance oddly affected. He tried to take a deeper breath in, but found that he couldn't.  _Most peculiar_. His brain commanded  _breathe!_  but nothing really happened. He could hear something, a noise in his left ear, then something pulled and pushed him into a sitting position. That hurt, a lot.

Something dragged across the back of his throat; hard and it scraped painfully, but then the pressure back there seemed to ease a little. He felt himself panting shallowly, but just couldn't manage anything more useful. Where was the rest of his body? He was just a dry mouth, a sore throat, a shallow gasp.

The cough came out of nowhere, reaching right down into his lungs with a burn.  _PAIN._  What little oxygen he had in his lungs was sucked out as he gasped in shock. Fire blossomed out of somewhere, travelling up nerves he didn't even know he had from somewhere vaguely registering as below his throat, to the left, a foot or so. The pain spread out, touching nerves and re-introducing his chest to his brain. Now, he could feel hands on him.

Breathing, even the little shallow panting, was painful. And he became aware of something being pushed onto his face. It smelled horrible; plastic and artificial. The air he was breathing stank of polyethylene, it was too wet, too thick, something wrong with it. What was this thing pressing on his face, poisoning him? He wanted to push it away; it must be causing the problem and the pain. Without knowing how, he became reacquainted with his fingers which scrabbled against the something hard sitting on his face. It was suffocating him, he had to get it off of him.

Now his ears caught up with his sense of touch and smell. Noises differentiated into a cacophony of different machine bleeps, and whirrs, thumps, high pitched electrical whines, braying voices? Everything too loud, too painful to be able to decipher, voices. Something pulled his hands away from the thing on his face. He struggled against it, and that finally seemed to break through the barrier so he could take a deeper breath.

And instantly regretted it, as the explosion in his chest made him cry out. The rest of his muscles woke up and tried to get into the game; he was fighting for his life now against this thing on his face. His skin felt like it was on fire. There was something touching him everywhere, pressing on him, restraining his ability to move, the sensation was overwhelming. It was like every square inch of him united to scream PAIN. He tried to open his eyes; if he could see the enemy, he could try to fight it. The light blazed into his retinas and he cried out again- colour, blinding, things moving. It was absolutely terrifying. And PAIN, pain that was too much, just too much. Something pressed down across his chest and legs for a moment, and then blackness swirled up into his brain and he was gone.


	2. Transport

**Four Days Earlier than the events depicted in Prologue…**

When the van veered sharply to the left, John grabbed the trolley beside him to make sure that it did not get slammed against the right side of the vehicle.  _Not exactly an orthodox ambulance_. The agent perched on the jump seat behind him was belted in, but John had refused to sit in the other seat, preferring instead to kneel beside the still figure strapped to the metal framework. From here, he could more easily monitor the patient's vital signs and the portable respirator. Despite his initial reservations when he first saw their intended transport, John appreciated that Mycroft's people had equipped the white transit van with just about every piece of equipment for almost every conceivable medical emergency.

John had his worries about moving a seriously ill patient- and those worries were magnified by the fact that Sherlock's enemies would be looking for any slip in security to wriggle through. His flatmate was only three days out of surgery following a brutal beating by a Russian thug. Just how that related to Sherlock's most recent confrontation with Moriarty would have to wait until he regained consciousness, because neither John nor Mycroft knew. Sherlock had gone off on his own, much to their dismay. Although he'd managed to escape after three days of captivity, the physical damage from his ordeal was shocking. John looked at the still figure strapped into the metal trolley, and worried. The consulting detective had not regained consciousness, so John could only speculate as to any mental consequences of the trauma.

In the meantime, Mycroft was taking no chances with his brother's life. The patient was being moved to a secret location under the cover of darkness, in a white van marked with the logo of the hospital's medical waste company. Someone watching for an ambulance departure would not notice the comings and goings of a vehicle that made regular collections of bio-hazardous materials every night at exactly the same time.

Four of Mycroft's men arrived at St Thomas' Hospital just after midnight to collect and move one unconscious consulting detective and his doctor flatmate to an unnamed secure rehabilitation unit. One of the men slipped off his coat to reveal a hospital gown, and he promptly got into the bed from which Sherlock had just been removed. The fact that he was the same height and build as the detective, had dark longish wavy hair and blue eyes was surely no mistake. To a casual observer, the charade of his continuing presence at the hospital might be maintained for a while after the real patient left. John began to realise just how seriously Mycroft was taking this.

They had been on the road for over ninety minutes, but John had no idea where they were headed. That, too, was part of the deal. "You don't need to know, John, until you are there," explained Mycroft when he handed over a locked briefcase containing Sherlock's medical files. "These are copies; I have the originals, so you can keep these for the duration." It was a heavy briefcase.

In the gloom of the van, he checked the IVs again. Sherlock was still receiving saline, glucose and antibiotics as well as anaesthesia. The respirator was breathing for him, given his pneumonia and the pulmonary contusion. John checked the Foley bag. Urine output still low; Sherlock's left kidney had been badly bruised in the beating, and recovery was slower than John would have hope for at this stage. He wondered for the hundredth time what effect the thug's injection of heroin and morphine into the detective was having on his friend's recovery. He brushed aside a dark curl so he could feel Sherlock's clammy forehead; his temperature was certainly not going down. He sighed. He needed to get his friend back into the relative safety of a hospital soon. If the fever got much worse, he could start seizing and that could undo all the work the surgeons had done to stop the internal bleeding.

The van hit a series of bumps in the road surface, which transmitted themselves up through the floor to rattle the portable bed. John cursed, wanting the softer ride of a proper ambulance, where shock absorbers protected patients from this sort of shaking. Despite being sedated, external stimulation like this could bring Sherlock closer to consciousness. John worried about him waking up to pain, and the horrid discomfort of a respirator. He upped the dosage of sedative a notch to compensate.

Fortunately, for both John's nerves and the health of his patient, it was only another 20 minutes before the van drew up at a guard post. A brief muffled discussion with the driver and they were waved through. After a few minutes, when the van came to a halt, the agents sprang into action, one opening the back door, the other disappearing into the building that loomed out of the darkness. John's eyes were used to the subdued light of the van, and he blinked in the sudden harsh fluorescent lights of a medical facility.

It wasn't a traditional emergency department- too quiet and empty for a start. John could see that at a moment's glance, and yet there was a full team of doctors and nurses waiting for them as the trolley was wheeled in through the double doors. A grey haired doctor strode forward.  _Military stride, regulation haircut, RAMC?_  John felt at home, but knew instinctively that this was not a military hospital.

"I'm Robert Toulson. I head up the Intensive Care and High Dependency units here. If you follow me, Doctor Watson, we will get your patient settled in."

The corridors were empty and they met no one else as Sherlock was wheeled into a lift and taken two floors up. They passed through no fewer than four sets of electronically locked doors, opened by key pads that contained nothing other than a fingerprint reader. John saw no one else as the team took Sherlock into what was clearly an intensive care unit- set up for six patients, but none of the other places were occupied.

His surprise was noted by Doctor Toulson. "The unit has been cleared of other patients, as we were instructed to do. In fact, the whole floor is empty; our current patients have been transferred to other facilities over the past three days. This is the most secure facility capable of full treatment in the country, so you can rest assured that the patient will be safe and well looked after here." Two of the three agents who had accompanied them upstairs had dropped off at key points along the way to provide protection; only one came into the room with them and he now took up a position by the door.

The medical team turned their attention to getting Sherlock hooked up to the equipment. Cardiac monitor, temperature and blood pressure, oxygen sats, and, of course, the ventilator machine. The team moved with swift efficiency born from years of working together, and the systems came online quickly.

"For security reasons, his records have not been sent to us electronically, Doctor Watson, so would you please present the case to us? We have his vitals already, so just give us some context, please. After this I will take your copies of his notes and the transfer documents."

For a moment, John looked at his friend on the trolley, and then switched into doctor mode:

"Thirty three year old male presents injuries consistent with significant blunt force trauma. Seven days ago, he was abducted and held for three days during which time he was severely beaten. He escaped his captors and was brought into the Emergency Department three nights ago. Injuries found from the top down were - slight cerebral contusion with no evidence of haemorrhagic transformation, c spine cleared by ct scan. Multiple bilateral rib fractures, flail chest and pneumohameothorax on the right, chest drain in situ, thoracics tied off a bleeding intercostal vessel. He's pyrexial with a CRP of 330 and a white cell count of 24. Renal contusion with resulting haematuria now settled. Just."

He took a breath and resumed, "Renal function remains impaired but is more suggestive of pre-renal dehydration than renal damage. He's intubated and ventilated on proprofol and a fentanyl infusion. 6 units transfused so far, plus two units of platelets and two of FFP. He also has co-existing pneumonia and evidence of sexual assault. Initial GUM screen was clear for STIS, but he'll need repeat bloods for HIV and hepatitis in 6 weeks and 3 months' time. His captors also injected him with a hefty dose of heroin, with morphine. He is a recovering cocaine addict who has been clean for two years that I am aware of, but appears to have a high tolerance for opiates, which will complicate pain management once he recovers consciousness."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson. We'll take over now. You must be tired after the journey. Nurse Saunders, please show the doctor to his quarters. After you've had a chance to freshen up, I would like to have a word with you in private."

John hesitated. He was reluctant to leave Sherlock.

"Please, Doctor, there is nothing more to be done now. We're just going to get him settled in and continue with the regime already started. I will be down in a couple of minutes to talk about what happens next and collect those records."

He realised that Toulson was being sensible. John was tired, and he needed to use the loo, wash his face and just stretch muscles that had been cramped from sitting on the floor of the van. He nodded and followed the nurse out.

The room he was shown into was spartan- a bed, an ensuite toilet with a shower, a chest of drawers. No window, possibly a patient's room, now allocated to him. At least there was no electronic lock on this door, but there were three such locks between him and Sherlock on the floor above. Not for the first time, John worried about having no control over the medical treatment and care for Sherlock. He had agreed to accompany his wounded friend but he could not be the one treating him. That said, he had the key to the briefcase now sitting on the bed, containing all of Sherlock's medical files, so that should give him some leverage with the medical team.

He used the loo, and washed his hands and face. A glance in the mirror over the sink confirmed what he already knew. He had not slept properly for days, and worry had etched wrinkles deeper into his face. This was only the beginning of what he feared would be a long recovery, and one that would challenge the patience of most people. Sherlock was not 'most people'; what worried John more than anything was what his flatmate would make of enforced isolation from all the things that made him who he was- no cases, no deductions, no experiments, no comforting routine or familiar faces apart from John's, nothing to stimulate that brain, nothing but the monotony of enforced bed rest and medical treatment for his injuries. Would Sherlock be able to cope? John worried almost as much for his friend's mental health as he did about the severity of his physical injuries.

John had no idea how long they'd be at this medical facility; Mycroft had made no promises regarding release dates, even assuming that Sherlock made a speedy recovery. The doctor recalled their last conversation: "I am afraid it is off to the dungeons with him, John. I have to be seen now to be playing this exactly by the book by those who will be highly critical of his going off on his own to Moriarty." When John had defended his friend, saying that it was impossible that Sherlock would ever really join Moriarty, it had to be a ploy to get close enough to take down the consulting criminal, Mycroft's reply chilled him right to the bone. "It will be Sherlock's word against those who would see him as susceptible to Moriarty's temptations. I can no longer defend his actions, John; he went there willingly and in direct defiance of my orders."

He rummaged in the bag he had packed at Baker Street, pulling out his razor. He stowed his pyjamas, a change of clothes, and underwear, a wash bag with toothbrush and deodorant- the bare necessities. He also carefully hung up one of Sherlock's suits and a fresh shirt.  _Wishful thinking? Or maybe a promise to myself that he's going to walk out of here on the mend._  He sighed as he shaved- never mind about Sherlock, John needed to look professional when Dr Toulson arrived, if he was going to argue for a say in Sherlock's treatment. He worried that he would need such a role if Sherlock was to make it through the next weeks. But, he also realised that he was risking his friendship, if Sherlock decided John was part of the conspiracy to keep him locked up out of harm's way. Professionally speaking, John knew that there were codes of practice that purposefully kept doctors at arm's length when friends and family needed treatment, yet he also knew that Sherlock was a unique patient, who would not cope with normal medical treatments.  _I'm on a razor's edge here, and I don't want this to cut our friendship into pieces._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depending on reader feedback, I can keep to the single chapter a day posting, or speed things up and do two chapters a day. Tell me what you’d like… If you are really in a hurry, you can read the whole thing over on FanFiction where I am known as SevenPercent.


	3. Distracted

Mycroft watched as his finger moved backwards and forwards, from the warm slick of where his mouth had been on the coffee cup to the cool dry porcelain and then back again. He had not realised that he was doing it.  _Strange._ If there had been anyone else in the room, he is certain that it would not have happened, this lapse of self-awareness, of total control over his movements. He glowered at the traitorous finger.

He sighed and decided to take a break from the slim file sitting on the office desk. He had read it once, and needed to think about its contents. The most disappointing bit was the drug test results. Standing up, he turned to the window behind, looking out onto the carefully manicured gardens behind the Cabinet Office. To the left was the back of Number 10 and beyond it Number 11 Downing Street, the powerhouse of the Prime Minister and the Chancellor of the Exchequer. To his right, the imposing grounds of Horseguards Parade. He'd had a series of meetings today that made his current location sensible. It wasn't his preferred place of work.  _Need more privacy_. This was all too public for his taste.

He frowned again, annoyed with losing focus on what he should be thinking about: the report from GCHQ detailing their failure to track Moriarty down. He had given them the audio clip.  _Surely after six days they should have traced his mobile calls._  Voice recognition software should have been able to produce something by now. _Maybe he texts by preference, knowing it is harder to capture?_ Mycroft's people had recovered the tapes of the bomber calls, especially the old blind woman's attempt to identify the soft voice in her ear.  _Not likely to be Moriarty; wouldn't want to get his hands dirty._  He sighed again, watching a lone figure crossing the parade ground, heading for Whitehall. It was annoying. One of the best surveillance and intelligence systems in the world, and it wasn't able to find the person he needed to track down. That thought provoked another equally irritating realisation; the same system had been unable to spot Sherlock's departure from Baker Street, either.  _Perhaps Moriarty is just as good as Sherlock is at avoiding prying eyes._

The cipher experts had also admitted no further progress decoding Sherlock's mind map from Baker Street. Mycroft had eventually deduced that it probably used a musical source, rather than a book, but so far the computers had not been able to identify any specific piece that would unlock the code.  _Probably using one of his own compositions._  He tapped the intercom. "My dear, could you ask someone to collect Sherlock's sheet music with his own work from Baker Street and send scans off to Cheltenham and Vauxhall please, please. "

"While I am there, sir, shall I collect his phone and laptop and send them by courier to the MI6 team?"

Mycroft smiled. "You could delegate this, you know."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

"Very well, I can spare you for a while. He generally prefers the old fashioned approach of writing notes on paper, but who knows, there might be a clue on the laptop. Actually, while you are there, could you find Sherlock's violin and bring it to me? At some point, he will probably want it."

"A peace offering, sir?"

Somehow Mycroft didn't think he would be able to placate his brother this time. "Unlikely, I think we shall be in the midst of open warfare for some time. Still, it can't hurt, and it might be a relief for Sherlock to have something to do with his hands other than get into trouble. John Watson might appreciate that."

Thinking of the doctor brought their last conversation back into Mycroft's mind. It had been a tense one, over the phone, when Mycroft had told John of his plans to move Sherlock.

"You used the word 'dungeon'; that usually implies holding someone against their will. What right do you have to do that?" The question was mildly put by the doctor, but the elder Holmes knew there was a lot of suspicion behind the question.

"There are at least half a dozen statures I could invoke to hold him, as his involvement with Moriarty could be classified as a threat to the security of the country."

"That's a little extreme, don't you think?"

"On the contrary, people in high places who are opposed to my work will say that I have been too lenient with my brother in the past, and that I should have recused myself entirely. So, I would rather not signal to them the fact that I am conceding they are right. I will have him held under the Mental Health Act."

"You're  _sectioning_  him! My God, Mycroft, on what possible grounds can you do that?" John was outraged. However annoying Sherlock could be, the doctor would never have described his friend as mentally ill.

Mycroft thought it a rather endearing sign of the man's affection for his wayward flatmate. "It only takes two medical staff signatures in addition to the nearest relative, and I've already signed. And given his recent behaviour, if he resists treatment or tries to leave the facility, he will be demonstrating he is a threat to both himself and others."

"Well, you won't get  _my_  signature on such a document."

"I rather assumed that" Mycroft answered, rather dryly. "The head of the facility will sign, once he has assessed Sherlock. And an expert will be coming once he is conscious; I have no doubt of her likely conclusion."

"No wonder he called you the most dangerous man I'm ever likely to meet."

Mycroft had considered his answer. "Well, I've just been beaten into second place by Moriarty." Mycroft took a breath and decided that some degree of candour was needed. "John, the reason why Sherlock considers me his 'archenemy' is because, technically speaking, I am still his official guardian. I was appointed that before he was sixteen. His autism and drug abuse, as well as mental health issues mean he has diminishing capacity to live independently, so I have lasting power of attorney over both financial and health matters. His behaviour since means it's highly unlikely that a court would emancipate him."

"Are we talking about the same person here? The one who manages to solve crimes that no one else even understands? Because the Sherlock I know doesn't sound like someone who should still be classed as a vulnerable person, whatever happened when he was a teenager. And I trust him, because he and I have actually discussed it, when I gave him legal rights to do something in case I'm incapacitated. "

 _Such loyalty_. Mycroft snorted in derision. "Your faith is misplaced."

The doctor bristled. "Well, it so happens to be true that neither Sherlock nor I actually trusts our siblings. Giving Sherlock those rights made more sense than trusting my sister would be sober on the day a life or death decision about me has to be made."

Mycroft snapped back at John. "I don't like repeating myself, but I will, as you haven't understood. Your loyalty is admirable, but mistaken. During the past two years, you have seen him at his best. I have seen him at his worst. Since he was sixteen, he has been in institutionalised three times, lived homeless on the streets of London for months on two occasions, and been arrested five times. He has taken ridiculous risks with his life, ending up injured numerous times. Shall I go on? Oh, yes, why don't I? Add his habitual neglect of himself, not eating and sleeping normally, his total disinterest in managing his financial affairs, and did I mention the drug abuse and two purposeful overdoses, doctor?" He did not attempt to hide the sarcasm. "I said it before, John; I worry about him constantly, and with good reason."

Up Whitehall, the sound of Big Ben tolling drew Mycroft back to the present. He had a meeting of the Strategy Group in fifteen minutes and the situation in Syria was going downhill fast; the latest UN brokered ceasefire had not held past the first day. He picked up the other, considerably fatter, file from the desk, and wondered again, not for the first time, why the British security services seemed better able to generate good intelligence on activities more than 2,000 miles away, but couldn't manage anything useful on Sherlock or Moriarty.


	4. Rules of Engagement

Doctor Robert Toulson knocked on the open door, and John waved him in. He sat on the edge of the bed, and gestured the other doctor to take a seat in the room's only chair. "How's he doing?"

The older man's demeanour was serious, but calm. "Fine, or at least as well as can be expected. His vitals are stable. I don't like the persistence of that pneumonia, however, and have ordered a different antibiotic. He's been on the other for long enough, if it were going to make a difference, he'd be showing signs of some improvement by now. He's been intubated for too long now, and that has to end now; he really needs a tracheostomy if that's got to continue. It's also not helping the pneumonia, nor is the deep sedation needed- a bit of a vicious circle that we have to break soon."

John thought about a tracheal scar across that amazing throat, and hoped it wouldn't come to that. He nodded at Doctor Toulson, but then went quiet for a moment. There was an issue here he needed to deal with straight away; the team here should consult John before making any future treatment changes. When he had packed his bag in Baker Street, he had retrieved two copies of a document stored in his desk drawer.  _Just in case; better to be prepared for the worst._ His discussion with Mycroft had opened a whole can of worms and a rather fraught discussion which John still had to think through.  _He is definitely not going to be happy when he discovers that Sherlock has given me legal rights that might supersede his own._

In the meantime, John had to make sure that Doctor Toulson didn't side-line him from any important decisions. He pulled the key from his pocket and used it to open the briefcase, pulled out a thin file and handed it across to the senior doctor. "Those are the notes on his admission, the surgery and the post op treatment." He then pulled out an envelope, and drew out a document. "And this is my lasting power of attorney, health & welfare. Next time you want to change his medication, I would appreciate being consulted."

Doctor Toulson took it and read through the first few paragraphs. His eyebrows drew together signalling his confusion when he reached the third paragraph. "He's classified as a vulnerable adult?" His disbelief was clear.

John remembered how astounded he'd been months ago to discover Mycroft was still his brother's legal guardian. Sherlock had just waved his hand in dismissal; he 'couldn't care less', and wouldn't 'dignify the concept' by even raising it with Mycroft. Even so, John felt compelled to argue for his friend's sake. "Sherlock Holmes may be 33 years old but he is still technically under the legal guardianship of his nearest relative, his brother. However, that document gives me authority to exercise decision making powers on medical issues on the patient's behalf. The document has been registered with the Office of the Public Guardian, and I have his consent to make medical judgements on his treatment, if he isn't able to do so."

"His brother did not mention anything about that regarding you, Doctor Watson. But, more important, on what grounds has he been judged to be vulnerable? If this affects treatment, we need to know why."

"Well, let's start with the fact that he is unconscious at the moment. But, more important, there are issues in this stack of medical files…" and here John pulled the rest of the contents of the briefcase out onto the bed, making a pile more than nine inches high, "and I will go through these to identify what you need to know, and what you don't. If it isn't relevant to his treatment here, then I intend to protect his privacy."

Toulson took John's firm tone in, and thought about it for a few moments. Then he stood up, and said briskly "Right. I will be holding a case conference later this morning. Seeing that it is now nearly 5am, and by the looks of it you have some reading to do, I am going to leave you in peace until 8am." He started towards the door.

"Doctor Toulson, I would like you to make arrangements for someone to come take a fingerprint reading so I can visit the patient whenever I want." John made his statements quietly but in the manner of a military man used to giving orders that were obeyed.

The senior doctor just looked at him for a moment. Clearly, being confronted with a patient advocate in this facility was an unusual situation for him. Eventually, he sighed. "Fine, Doctor Watson, you've made your views known, and I will see what can be done to accommodate them. You have no accreditation to work in this facility, but I've been told you have security clearance and that we should co-operate with you. I can see that you're taking your responsibilities to the patient very seriously, so let's just see how we get on, shall we?"

John decided to let it go. He'd made his point, drawn a line in the sand, and he hoped that the rules of engagement were now understood. That there would be battles ahead he had no doubt. John was going to have to have words with Sherlock about his failure to enlighten his brother about John's lasting powers of attorney.  _The last thing I need is getting caught in the crossfire between this medical team, Mycroft and a very recalcitrant and uncooperative patient._


	5. Planning Stages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the previous chapter was so short, I thought I would post the next one, too.

"I like your shoes." Jim purred it over a glass of champagne. He eyed her mandarin red ostrich skin Louboutins, and the shapely legs that went from the shoes up to the tight, form fitting navy sheath dress.  _Probably Prada._

He raised his glass in a salute. Not just any champagne; it was Veuve Clicquot Rosé, La Grande Dame, 1998. "In honour of pink cheeks, Ireenee." He loved giving her name the old fashioned English pronunciation. Neither he nor the elegant woman sitting across from him was in fact English, but, no matter; it was the thought that counted.

"Mine, or her highnesses?" came the dry retort. She gazed at the Irishman, who smirked at her  _double entendre_. With his exquisite suit and her vintage outfit, they looked the part for the Beaufort Bar at the Savoy. Art Deco design in gold and black just set off her style so well that it had become one of her favourite meeting places.

"Oooh, naughty girl. You know, I don't think I've ever been a royalist, must have been bred out of my Irish genes. And now that I know at least one of the new generation's taste for bondage, I am even more inclined to become a republican. Shame that there's not much use in recruiting your HRH to be one of my dark angels. The English know how to package their monarchy as media entertainment, but in the real world, they have no power. And your latest conquest is just…well," he sniffed, "too far down the food chain; I mean, to get anything significant out of Good Queen Bess, you'd need to be up there in the top five in line."

"She's not my target. It's those who seek to protect her that have real value to me. Have we done enough business now for me to be able to call you Jim?"

"Careful,  _mein_  little  _domina_ ; flirting with me is a dangerous past time."

"Very well, I can be strictly professional, Mister Moriarty." If there was a little more emphasis on the word "strictly", Jim chose to ignore it. "I've delivered three of your targets over the past six months, now time for the payback."

"Small fry." His mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown. "One high court judge, one minor political party chairman, one police commissioner from the Midlands. Not exactly A list, are they?"

"You asked for them, dear man; I can't be held responsible for your lack of taste."

"Oh, so it is. They are useful in their own way, allow me to meet some interesting client requests. So, ta, thanks very much. And, it was sort of an initiation rite. I wanted to see what you could do."

She laughed, a full throated and remarkably sexy laugh. "Oh, you've  _seen_  nothing. If you hadn't asked, I wouldn't have wasted my time on them. They were  _boring,_ no challenge at all. "

"Was the MoD man more interesting?"

She sniffed. "It's rather depressingly predictable what a mid-career civil servant likes, especially when he is surrounded all day by military men. But then he was  _so_ anxious to prove to me just how important he was. So, between lashes, he told me all about this strange little game that someone is about to play, in order to protect the truth from a rather interesting terrorist network. And, lo and behold, as a result you are willing to drop everything and arrange this meeting. A girl might feel flattered by such attentions."

He gave her a wry smile. "Save the sex talk for someone who isn't immune. Attachment disorder,  _mein liebchen_ ; just can't give fifty shades of shite about anyone, even if I do want to satisfy my lust occasionally." But, her brain was something much, much more attractive to Jim. And she was giving nothing away. He knew she had the MoD man's code, but wasn't going to give it up easily.

"So, is this a dance of the seven veils, my dear? Do I get to strip a bit off of you to see just how much you know about what you've actually got? I meant what I said when you phoned me that night last week; tell me the truth and I will make you rich; tell me a lie and I will make you into a pair of shoes like the ones you're currently wearing." He glanced down. "Yes, I do believe that a pair of ivory coloured stilettos would suit very well as your reincarnation."

"And what if I were to tell you that I'm not after money?"

The Irishman gazed at her with renewed interest. "Just what is it that  _you_  like, Ms Adler? What rocks your boat, gets you going?"

She looked him up and down with a frankly appraising eye, then a small smile caught the corner of those slash red lips. "Sorry, I'm not after your body or your soul, but I could do with your brain to solve a little problem of mine. I have collected a lot of useful  _insurance_  over the years, to ensure that my clients and my privacy are respected. I don't do blackmail- too crude, and eventually someone turns nasty. I could turn a few of them over to you to join your band of fallen angels, along with that MoD code. But, I need something _really_ valuable in exchange. It's sort of the ultimate 'get out of jail free' card, and it's in the hands of a man I have heard about, a grey ghost somewhere deep in the bowels of the British government who seems to have all the answers, all the secrets; he and his people are able to interfere at will with my work. He's a nuisance."

Moriarty frowned. "Yeah, I know of him, Mycroft Holmes. Self-righteous, smug bastard. A right nuisance and all- the Iceman and his little brother, the Virgin."

"Brother? I wasn't aware of a sibling." She watched his face, seeing tiny clues that he had withheld until now. "You're clearly interested in both of them, aren't you?" Her skill, so deftly used in her line of work, was to be able to read a person's desires, and to play them to her own advantage. She was an emotional savant. What she was seeing in the man in front of her was the first real animation.  _He lives behind a mask so often he's forgotten that he even has a face._  "You're thinking that you can use the younger to get the older to play?" She had seen enough, so turned her eyes away and watched the delicate bead of bubbles rising in the champagne flute. "This pursuit of the Holmes brothers is what  _you_  like, Mr Moriarty, isn't it? Well, I think we have a common target then, and should collaborate."

Jim thought about it- for all of a nanosecond. Two dominants-one a psychopath, the other a dominatrix- could be a fairly combustible combination, a heady cocktail that might just intoxicate a pair of Holmes.

"Dead on, dearie. Together, we're gonna be just magic." He poured them both another glass of champagne.


	6. While You Were Sleeping

By the time the sun came up, John had worked his way through almost a third of the pile of medical records, covering Sherlock's birth to aged eleven. He sighed, stood up and stretched, trying to find energy from somewhere. He desperately needed a cup of coffee to keep his energy up after yet another night without sleep. He knew he would have to sleep at some point soon, but his need to prepare for the case conference was driving him on through the medical files.

He decided to go forage for a coffee. Out the door, down a deserted corridor, and then down one flight of stairs to the front reception. No fingerprint controlled locks on this floor or the one below, from what he could see. He passed Thompson, one of Mycroft's minions at the door to the stairs; he nodded in reply to John's soft "good morning". Rothson was the agent sitting alongside the facility's receptionist at the front desk, who pointed him in the direction of the staff room where he found a coffee machine. At the first sip, John grimaced ( _as bad as Barts' swill_  ) but he drank it straight back anyway. The scalding heat, caffeine and the sugar were what he needed now. He punched the code for a second one, which he took back up the stairs with him.

He stopped to look out of the big window at the end of the corridor, taking in the peaceful scene of the sun rising over fields and woods. He took a long sip from the second coffee. His eye didn't miss the double lines of high security fencing in the distance, and in the early morning light he could now see the CCTV that would make this a difficult place to break into.  _Or out of, come to think of it; Mycroft did call it a dungeon._ The modern day equivalent, with no evidence of cobwebs, chains or rats, but probably just as loathsome to the one and only consulting detective confined within its walls.

He used the moment to let his thoughts wander over the material he had been reading for the past hour and a half. Premature birth ( _I should have guessed that somehow)._ Sherlock had been born seven weeks early and been kept in hospital three weeks after his mother had left. The first notes after birth were from the nurse that the family had hired, and noted the baby's difficulties in sleeping, feeding and settling. Records from the first year were mostly from the GP, showing that those difficulties continued; he was trying to identify what it was that made the family feel that something wasn't right with the child, but it proved hard to pin down. The notes said that it was the nanny who provided most information about how the baby cried constantly, did not respond much or interact, didn't want to play games or mimic her sounds, and that she'd never seen him smile.

Soon after Sherlock's first birthday, the file contained a battery of test results- vision, hearing, responsiveness- and the first reports of the toddler not making eye contact. He was quieter and cried less now, but didn't do much in the way of baby talk. Then came the report of the infant having an unusual reaction to sensory stimuli. The GP conducted a simple test- he'd put Sherlock on his back on the examination table and then went and stood at the door, clapping his hands. The child had screamed as if a bomb had gone off. The diagnosis was hypersensitivity, and the GP called for more tests to see the extent of the sensory processing disorder. It was also the first time when the record flagged up possible autism.

From then on, it was as Mycroft had told John: a textbook case. The records tracked all the usual traits- slow to develop speech, not engaging with people, tantrums, not responding to his name, not playing with others, not liking to be touched or cuddled- it was a lot of "nots". Then came repetitive movements and self-stimulation. Between the age of three and five, Sherlock was examined by specialists who were trying to pin down the nature and degree of his autism. The records multiplied- cognitive development tests, speech and language evaluations, adaptive function assessments, motor skills observations. Almost all of the reports noted Sherlock's intelligence and memory skills, but there seemed to be a fundamental split of opinion. Some declared him to be on the middle of the autism spectrum, whilst others thought he might be Aspergers Syndrome. Another minority group of reports suggested a diagnosis of PDD-NOS. John had to use the internet on his laptop to make sense of that: Pervasive Development Disorder- Not Otherwise Specified.  _Leave it to Sherlock to be undefinable._  It all seemed so far away from the genius detective he knew- eccentric? Yes. Disabled? No. Not in John's book anyway.

Increasingly, the records showed how Sherlock's mother had taken over the care of her son; nannies were no longer mentioned after the initial diagnosis at 36 months, and the GP notes recorded her diligence in working through learning and play treatment plans. Buried in the medical jargon and the dry facts, John could see the story of how she got expert advice and then used it to guide her son's development. As a medical professional, he had also learned to read between the lines. Not one of the case notes ever mentioned the presence or involvement of a father.

While thinking through what he had found in the records, he let his eyes wander over the landscape. The sunlight was now creeping over the distant line of trees, and his attention was drawn to a car approaching on the same driveway that the white transit van must have taken last night. A black government car.  _Mycroft?_  John somehow doubted it. The elder Holmes would have mentioned it last night, if he had intended to come this morning.  _Unless he's suddenly discovered that Sherlock has given me legal rights over his treatment, if he can't consent himself._  That possibility made the doctor knock back the last of the horrible coffee and hurry back to his room; he had files to read before that case conference.

oOo

"Doctor Watson, allow me to introduce Doctor Esther Cohen." A grey haired but trim woman standing next to Toulson looked in John's direction with keen interest. Unlike Toulson and the rest of the medical team in the conference room who were in the same rumpled white lab coats or scrubs from last night, Doctor Cohen wore an air of professional expertise as sharp as the suit she had on.

 _She's the one who arrived by car an hour ago, sent by Mycroft no doubt._   _The third signatory on the sectioning papers?_

"You're the psychiatrist, then."

She smiled, a genuine and warm smile, her brown eyes crinkling with humour. "I see his skills of deduction are shared. Doctor Watson, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Not much deduction was needed, Doctor Cohen. That is, assuming you are E Cohen from Bethlem Hospital's Children's unit. I've seen your case notes in his files." He'd read the sorry tale of Sherlock's seven months in the unit, being treated for what followed the death of his mother. The first record after release had her name on it.

A slightly puzzled look formed on Doctor Cohen's face. "Then you haven't managed to wade through years 12 to 29 yet? I'm now with Maudsley Hospital, and have been involved with Sherlock's treatment for nearly 20 years. Mycroft Holmes retained my services over that period so there would be some consistency of care."

Doctor Toulson interrupted whatever John was about to say in response, and led them into the room. "Can we all please be seated? I'd like to get this case meeting underway." Toulson then introduced his colleague, Doctor Patel, and the three nurses, Saunders, Compton and Smith.

For the benefit of Doctor Cohen, Toulson then summarised Sherlock's physical injuries and the pneumonia. Seated to her left, John decided to watch her face as she calmly digested the details. When the doctor mentioned in passing the possibility of sexual assault, however, Esther Cohen's eyes tightened and she drew a breath.  _Yes, I agree_ , thought John,  _that's going to be very difficult to deal with, if it's true. I'm not sure why I know that, but I do._  John found himself wearing a frown to match hers.

Doctor Toulson went on to cover the medications that Sherlock was on- the new antibiotics, the anaesthesia that was keeping him unconscious while intubated. He then cleared his throat and went on: "Doctor Cohen, I understand that you are an expert in autism and related disorders and that the patient suffers from it."

"Suffers?" There was a slight tilt of her head at that comment. "I am not sure that is the right word, Doctor Toulson. He has some of the symptoms usually equated with that label, so I am not going to deny the obvious. But, for the most part, he does manage rather well. We have yet to see what the effects of his being held and assaulted will be. I'm not prepared to say before I've actually had a chance to assess a conscious patient. He has surprised me in the past."

Toulson frowned. "I guess what I meant is that the team here need to understand what, if any, issues might arise when we proceed with treatment. None of us here have actually treated an autistic adult before, so we are looking for any insight you can provide."

"I can't tell you that until he is awake and I have a chance to assess his state of mind. Quite honestly? The autism isn't likely to be as much of an issue as you seem to think. There are other matters in his medical history that might have more bearing, however, and these will complicate his treatment. First things first- he has sensory processing disorder. At its most extreme, and he has had occasions when it has been that extreme, this means his mind will interpret almost every sensation as pain. The allydonia is also accompanied at times by hyperalgesia, so pain management is an issue. The next issue is that he is a cocaine addict, and one who has overdosed twice, so suicidal intent has already been proven. There are comorbid mental conditions that complicate his treatment- and have done so for some twenty years or more." At this point, she turned towards John.

"Doctor Watson, you've read his early years files. Why don't you share with us your assessment?"

Doctor Toulson's eyes widened, and he spoke before John could say a word. "Doctor Watson is not a member of the treatment team, Doctor Cohen. He's here as a patient advocate only."

"Nevertheless, I'd value his opinion. " Esther Cohen continued smoothly. "After all, he knows the patient's most recent history better than any of us; he's been sharing the same flat with Sherlock for the past two years, and he knows the circumstances that led to Sherlock's injuries. That adds value, surely." She smiled sweetly at Doctor Toulson, and John found himself liking her more with each passing moment.

John decided to cut to the chase. "A lot of what I've read so far about Sherlock's early years is text book ASD. Yet, the Sherlock I live with is high functioning- in fact, I wouldn't have thought him autistic. Looking back at his files, I guess the surprising thing to me is his reaction to his mother's death when he was ten, and the episode of CMDE." Cohen nodded, but Toulson looked confused, as did the rest of his team. John explained the abbreviation: "Catatonic major depressive episode".

Toulson looked startled. "So, there is a history of mental illness, then?"

Cohn frowned, and looked sternly at Toulson. "Take one ten year old child and remove the only person with whom he has successfully formed an attachment, and you might get clinically depressed, too, doctor, if you were in his place. When that ten year old is autistic and cannot communicate his feelings appropriately to a father who does not comprehend the nature of his son's condition, the result was rather catastrophic. Add sensory processing disorder, and you get total withdrawal through catatonia. "

John had to ask. "Were you there when the decision was made to institutionalise Sherlock? Did you condone the decision to use ECT to break his catatonia?" If she answered yes, he would have to hastily revise his initially favourable impression of her.

"The answer is 'no' to both of your questions, Doctor Watson. I first met Sherlock  _after_ he left the Kingscourt unit. His brother thought that Sherlock would need substantial support readjusting to daily life after months of inpatient treatment. I tried to help."

Robert Touslon sniffed. "This trip down memory lane is all well and good, but the events you are describing happened over twenty years ago and I have a patient who urgently needs care  _right now._ What can you tell us about the patient that really matters?"

The older woman scrutinised the Facility Unit Head. "Everything I've said is relevant to his treatment here, Doctor Toulson. Setting aside his autism, Sherlock as an adult has suffered from..." and here she ticked them off on her fingers one by one, "disorders relating to anxiety, mood, impulse control, and substance abuse. To answer your most immediate treatment questions, the opiate used in post- operative care will have repercussions because of what happened before his injuries."

She took a deeper breath, pausing for a moment, before going on. "His brother has given me the results of the hair follicle analysis test done when Sherlock was admitted to the Emergency Department, at his insistence. It came through earlier this morning. The ED tox screen picked up the heroin and morphine, but we know now that Sherlock was using cocaine in a statistically meaningful way at some point or points during the last 30 days."

John just shut his eyes.  _Damn, damn, damn! Must have been when he was hiding out on the streets._ Had he been able to see any evidence of it when Sherlock reappeared that night? Certainly, he had been highly volatile with his brother. And lacking in impulse control. Were drugs the reason why he'd gone after Moriarty himself? The doctor sighed; this would complicate things when it came to recovery.

Esther Cohen couldn't hear his internal monologue. She kept going. "Withdrawal from it will involve pain, nausea and neurochemical imbalances, and I can assure you that he does not detox well. Anxiety and depression are quite likely, as is his outrage at being indefinitely confined in this facility. There is another issue, too. Frankly, I am also concerned about the report of sexual assault and the impact that might have on a state of mind already under such pressure."

John turned to Touslon. "What have you got in mind in terms of a treatment plan?"

"First steps? We have to get him breathing on his own, off ventilation. In another day, we'll have to make a decision about a tracheostomy, or face laryngeal stenosis. He's starting to build up pleural fluids, needs to be sitting up and coughing, if the pneumonia is going to ease. He's showing early signs of respiratory acidosis, too. With a flail chest, it won't be easy to stabilise his rib cage to the point where the coughing is productive, but we need to try. I've upped the antibiotics and given him some acetaminophen this morning, and his temperature is down as a result, but he's still going to have to shift the phlegm. His readings indicate we can try a spontaneous breathing test this afternoon, and assuming he does alright, bring him back to consciousness and extubate. Do you have any reason to argue with that course of action?" Toulson looked at both Doctor Cohen and Doctor Watson, as it daring them to disagree.

Doctor Cohen spoke first, "Well, the sooner we can get him through detox, the better, so I approve of anything to lower the dose of opiates. And the quicker he regains consciousness, the better, because I need to assess his state of mind, to see what should happen after that."

They both turned to John. "I'm not going to argue with the concept, but I do worry about how you're going to do it." He glanced down at the conference table, as if trying to frame his words carefully. "I've only read the first twelve years' worth of medical files, but I've seen enough already to make me realise that he doesn't trust medical professionals. I already know from personal experience that he has a history of being an uncooperative patient."

Esther Cohen gave a full throated laugh at John's comment. "That is about the biggest understatement I have ever heard made about Sherlock Holmes. Fasten your seat-belts, gentlemen, this is going to be one hell of a roller coaster ride."


	7. Mycroft Starts to Plot

_At last!_  The first report of a possible sighting of Moriarty. Before letting him leave London, Mycroft made Doctor Watson use the latest photo-fit software to give an approximation of Moriarty. GCHQ had been using it to scrutinise CCTV footage in London, but with no results. Then, serendipity led to a breakthrough. On another case entirely, his people had been watching a particular woman, who had been named in a scandal case involving a senior backbench MP and his wife. Unusually, the woman had been identified as involved with  _both_  sides of the messy divorce, without the other party being aware of her.

Irene Adler. She'd been under surveillance now for almost a month. The team detailed with watching her had been steadily recording all of her meetings, and one of them at the Savoy Hotel was with a man whose image was a 69% probability match with Watson's description. If the agent hadn't just happened to see Watson's photo-fit of the Irishman on a screen when he walked by, then they'd never have had this breakthrough. His people would fax through the image to Watson to get final confirmation, but for now, the team investigating Moriarty were using the new image to see whether they could trace his movements.

Now Mycroft was on his way to his favourite place to think: the Diogenes Club.  Sherlock had his Baker Street sofa; Mycroft had the Diogenes Club. Mycroft needed physical privacy, a chance to escape the all-too-many demands, for his mind to work at its true depth.

As he went up the steps of the club from Pall Mall, he spared a thought for Sherlock, and wondered why for his brother isolation and utter silence seemed something to run from as fast as he could. For Mycroft, it was the opposite- a total luxury, rare enough to be treasured, a time to just think and not be overcome with yet another 'priority' clamouring for his attention. When they were children, he had dreaded that awful cry 'BORED' at the top of a six year old's lungs. For him, silence, solitude and utter privacy was something so special, so exciting – it allowed him to access his mind without other distractions. No wonder Mycroft had resented the babysitting duties thrust on him from an early age. He did not begrudge his mother her times away from her demanding younger son, but he did wish that he was not always the one roped into duty ( _Why can't you buy him a friend, mummy?)_. When as a twelve year old he had asked that question, his mother had just laughed and said that friendship didn't work that way. Families had duties, so he had to look after Sherlock for a little while. Mycroft had not wanted friends. Contacts, yes- people who could be useful to him. But, friends were too demanding, took too much time. So he had grown up with schoolmates thinking they were his friends, but he had never returned the compliment.

As he hung up his coat and umbrella on the hook that was his own, and no one else's (sparing him the need to talk to a cloakroom attendant), he realised how he envied his brother's total disregard for responsibilities. The elder Holmes had for the past decade been unable to dodge all the various strands demanding his attention; he was spread too thin for the kind of detailed operational planning needed to capture Moriarty. But, he knew he had to do it himself, or risk someone else falling prey to Moriarty's ability to pervert the course of justice.

Mycroft would therefore need a bullet-proof plan. His first attempt, using the Bruce Partington missile defence plans, had backfired badly, and Moriarty hadn't even been tempted. Something more interesting was needed now to entice him out into the open, something that would make it hard to defend the criminal mastermind in public.  _I need to catch him red-handed, with no reasonable doubt possible._ Anything less than an open and shut case would allow Moriarty to exercise his influence through his network of supporters to avoid arrest. What had stopped every security service in over thirty countries from going after him was Moriarty's network of people in high places. Mycroft had worked hard over the past two weeks to identify them, but he knew what he had found so far was only the tip of the iceberg.

It needed more than a classic "sting" operation. Catching him was the best that he could expect; holding him for any length of time would be impossible- the man's contingency plans would put a halt to that. Moriarty 's safety net of useful people would be able to stop him from ever seeing the inside of a courtroom. So, Mycroft's trap needed to lure out into the open his defenders, too, making them obvious. It wasn't just Moriarty who needed to be caught, it was his _'contingency corps'_ , whose weaknesses the Irishman had somehow discovered and was willing to exploit if necessary. All of those favours led to acceptance in high circles that confronting Moriarty directly had just never been possible.

Mycroft thought about the conversation he'd had with Sherlock in the middle of the night after the pool incident. "He calls himself a consulting criminal". Could it be possible to approach him with a puzzle that needed his solution? Could it be done in such a way that Moriarty would be caught incriminating himself? Such a plot would probably not be enough to get an arrest warrant, but as a first step, it could force Moriarty to call in some favours, and expose his friends in high places to scrutiny. If Mycroft could keep chipping away at those people, then eventually, it would come down to a fair fight between the two men. For that to work, he needed to keep his brother firmly on the side-lines. Sherlock was not one for the long game; Mycroft was predisposed toward it. It was yet another difference between the two brothers, and one that had always led to friction.

He sat himself down in the wing-backed chair in the silent room. He chose a chair that faced away from the room's other occupants, away from the windows on the left side. Unbidden, a silent waiter brought him a tumbler his usual brand of twenty year old single malt scotch whiskey. Mycroft drew his hands together under his chin, stared at the blank wood panelled wall in front of him, and began to plot.


	8. Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This covers the same scene as the Prologue, but seen from the perspective of the medical staff, rather than Sherlock. You may want to refresh your memory of how Sherlock experiences it, before seeing it from the other side.

John crossed his arms and watched from the corner of the room. He was worried about the scene unfolding in front of him. And yet, he was finding it hard to explain why. So far, Toulson's approach had worked. Earlier this morning, they had started weaning him off the ventilator. Sherlock had passed a spontaneous breathing test, so they were now about to wake him up and remove the endotracheal tube. He'd been put on sedation hold, the propofol cut for a few hours. His fentanyl dosage had been cut by nearly a third, and he was now getting non-opiod analgesics, as well. Yet, something was just …setting off alarm bells, but John couldn't put his finger on a clear-cut clinical reason why. He'd learned a lot about his friend over the past twenty four hours, and he was still trying to digest what it all actually meant. He was tired, and his eyes were sore from reading the medical files for the past two hours. He'd scanned most of them, taking in the bare bones that Doctor Cohen had mentioned in passing.

Sherlock's records were crammed full of one-off examinations from doctors who came and went with depressing regularity. After release from the institution, he'd been cared for by a resident nurse and home schooled by a series of tutors brought in to prepare him for public school. Even so, his father was still conspicuously absent from the medical assessments and treatment plans. Between 12 and 15, there had been no fewer than five visits to casualty units for bruises, sprains and then the broken arm. One A&E doctor had written a query on the file, "possible abuse/self-harming- at next admission inform Social Services?" Then at 16 came the first drug use and rehab centre reports, intermixed with Doctor Cohen's records about growing concerns that her patient's treatment for anxiety, depression and addiction were being complicated by his hypersensitivity and autism. Over the past two years of living with his flatmate, John had realised Sherlock had an aversion to doctors and hospitals. Now he knew why- he'd seen more than his fair share during his life time.

Before the team had entered the room, John pulled Toulson and Cohen aside for one last try. "Look, I'm sorry, but I just feel things are being done too quickly here." He tried to address the physical issues to Doctor Toulson. "Changing Sherlock's medication to a NSAID is just going to increase his pain to the point where it interferes with his ability to cough- and surely that will make the pneumonia and pleural effusion worse. For Sherlock, paracetemol is like, I don't know, pouring a glass of water on a house fire. "

"I am sorry Doctor Watson, but I have to disagree, and I am responsible to his brother for Sherlock's care. His breathing is being compromised by the high dose of fetanyl, and we have no choice. His lungs' functional residual capacity is too low. He's been intubated for far too long, and we’ve been successful so far in re-training him to breathe on his own. We have to take the final step. He must start to come off the drug now, or risk his pneumonia getting worse. If the opiate is suppressing respiration to the point where the lung cannot properly re-inflate, the pleura won't re-seal, and the risk of infection will increase. There are already signs of growing pleural effusion, and we need to drain it."

He could tell from Toulson's set frown that he wasn't going to convince him, so he turned to Esther Cohen. "You're the one who has argued that treatment for physical injuries seldom deals with his psychological issues, aren't we in danger of doing that now, if we push him too far, too fast?"

Doctor Cohen gave John with a sympathetic but sad look. "I'm sorry, too, John, but on this occasion I have to agree with Doctor Toulson. Sherlock has just got to be weaned off the fentanyl as soon as possible. He is going to have to go through detox and withdrawal, and the longer he is on opiates the harder it will be. The drugs are going to complicate his recovery, both physical and mental. It's who he is, you know this as well as I do."

She put a comforting hand on John's arm. "He can't be wrapped in cotton wool. Time he woke up and faced the music. We have to find out how badly affected he is, both physically and mentally."

He considered her comment. Was it true? Was he afraid of Sherlock waking up, of what they would find when his friend recovered consciousness?

He made one last effort. "I'm worried that he's just going to freak about this." As soon as he said it, he regretted it; it sounded so medically unprofessional.

Dr Toulson frowned. "We have no reason to suppose that he's going to react badly, why would he be uncooperative, Doctor Watson? You seem to be over-reacting here. We're going to follow protocols here."

Reluctantly, John stood aside and then followed them into Sherlock's room.

Toulson wasted no time. "Nurse Saunders, please cut the fentanyl drip, and compensate with the IV paracetemol." As she complied, he turned to John and Esther. "Given how high a dose he has been receiving, I expect it will take some time for the drug to relinquish its hold before he wakes up enough to extubate."

But, Sherlock began showing signs of returning consciousness within fifteen minutes. His resistance to the opiate meant that he was only just being kept under. His heart rate increased and blood pressure rose. The ventilator was slowly tapered off and switched to on-demand, forcing Sherlock to breathe more on his own. His breathing became shallower and more uneven. John kept an eye on the oxygen saturation monitor. Once the CO2 levels climbed, the impulse to breathe on his own would take over and the tube could be unclipped from the ventilator machine.

The first sign of consciousness came when Sherlock's closed eyes winced as he swallowed. His breathing through the tube became more ragged and even shallower. His right hand flexed spasmodically. The tube was disconnected by Doctor Toulson who said "Sherlock, you need to wake up now. Come on, we need you to wake up so we can help you breathe." Nurse Compton worked the bed's controls so it raised his head and chest. She then lifted his shoulders and pushed another pillow behind his back. Sherlock gagged and his hand instinctively reached for the tube, as Doctor Toulson continued to speak. "We're going to remove the breathing tube now, Sherlock. I want you to take in a deep breath and blow it out on a count of three."

On the count of three, the tube was pulled out, and Sherlock gave the expected cough. His eyes were still closed. Toulson said "That's good, well done Sherlock, that's just what we needed to hear." Nurse Compton then placed the pressurised oxygen mask over Sherlock's mouth and nose, pulling the straps tight to create a good seal. Sherlock shook his head and then his right hand jerked up to his face, colliding clumsily with the face mask. Nurse Saunders took his hand firmly, and pulled it away from the mask. Robert called out, "Sherlock, you need to leave the mask in place, and try to slow your breathing down. Try to hold each breath in for a count of four."

Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but he was trying to wrestle his hand away from the nurse. John kept an eye on the blood pressure monitor, now reading 160/95, and a pulse rate topping 102. He stepped up to the bed to look at Sherlock's face, and saw the first tell-tale signs- a fine sheen of sweat was forming on his forehead and eyelids. "Diaphoresis", he said pointedly to Toulson. With his right hand held captive by the nurse, Sherlock's left hand started to reach up to the mask. John took it in his own, feeling instantly how cold it was. "Vasoconstriction", he glared again at Toulson; "He's in a lot of pain, and not even fully conscious yet."

Sherlock took his first really deep breath in, and cried out as he came wide awake. The monitor showed his pulse rate jump up to 119 and the nurse confirmed it: "He's tachycardic, sir." His neck arched and his head went back reflexively, his eyes fluttering open. His pupils were blown wide open; John could hardly see the grey green irises. Sherlock began to thrash about on the bed, as John and Nurse Saunders tried to hold him down. They had to stop him from opening stitches, and shifting the broken bones.

"Come on, Toulson, you can see the evidence; he's in agony. How much more of this are you going to make him take?" Esther Cohen made a decision, and she took up a position on the side of the bed trying to stop Sherlock's legs from kicking. "We need to stop this  _now_ , doctor, or he's going to lose his airway again", as Sherlock's struggles intensified.

With a defeated sigh, Doctor Toulson reached up to the fentanyl drip and twisted it open again.


	9. Reconsideration

Toulson looked like his nose was seriously out of joint. In a scathing tone, he confronted John in the corridor outside Sherlock's room . "So,  _Doctor_ Watson, what's your Plan B?" His emphasis on the title made his scepticism clear.

Esther Cohen decided to play peacemaker. "Robert, I know you have been thinking of John as the patient advocate here, but remember, he is a qualified trauma surgeon with battlefield experience. We owe him the professional courtesy to consider his advice."

John decided to be blunt. "I'd start by switching the analgesia. Start swapping sufentanil for the fentanyl progressively over the next five hours. Even though it's an opiate, it's more potent so you can use a significantly lower dose and that won't depress his respiration as much. Because he has such a high tolerance for opiods, I think he needs enough to get him conscious, but not in agony. Once he's awake, we can see whether he's willing to co-operate when you drain the pleural fluids, and then keep reducing the analgesia. If he's awake we can switch to patient administered, and let him set the level."

"When we can get his pain management under control, then we can think about detox. We wouldn't need to do this if he had just avoided the cocaine, but I didn't have eyes on him for more than about four hours between…uh.." the days were starting to blur together. Had it really only been two and half weeks ago that they had been standing beside a pool? "the 17th and when he turned up at the emergency department. So we don't know the real extent of the cocaine problem. We need to find that out, but my guess is that it was not a binge- more a way of helping him think his way through some tough problems. Stupid- but with hindsight, I suppose predictable given what we'd been through."

John watched Esther's reaction, and was encouraged by what he saw, so he continued, "Now that he does have to deal with it, I recommend that we suggest he does it quickly- a rapid detox. Rather than the usual two to three weeks' worth of weaning him off fentanyl followed eventually by withdrawal, and then having to cope with the effects of insomnia and depression for months, we can offer him something more radical – a really fast detox under anaesthesia that will last about four to six hours. He'll wake up to fewer withdrawal symptoms and be further along the detox process, After three days, he can take oral naltrexone, and then after another few days, we can inject a naltrexone pellet that will keep him clean for a month at a time- or three months, if he agrees to it. Instead of the usual 28 day in patient exercise, it takes 8 to 10 days max. And I know Sherlock, that will be what he wants to do, because it will mean he can get out of here faster. And that, in my view, is the best way to deal with both the anxiety and the depression that would follow a normal detox."

"That rapid a procedure isn't done in the UK except in the private sector; the NHS is not happy with the risks involved. General anaesthesia will almost certainly lead to a loss of airway and re-intubation- wouldn't you say this is risky for a patient with pneumonia?" Toulson sounded incredulous.

John put on his best army doctor tone. "The procedure can be done on moderate to deep sedation- we can keep him at just the right level for him; he doesn't need to be all the way out of it through a general, so there's less risk of compromising his airway. At most he might need an oxygen mask like the one he's using now." He smiled.

"And what about contraindications for renal failure?"

"That's a red herring. His kidney function is improving by the hour. Once he's awake you can get him off the Foley, and remove the risk of a UTI. Give him a day or two awake on a lower dose of sufentanil to make sure both the pneumonia and the bruising are no longer a real issue, then go for detox aggressively, provided he wants to do it. If he is mentally prepared for it, then I think it will work,  _doctor._ "

Like two alpha males facing each other down, the pair had been trading medical prognoses like punches. It was Toulson who blinked first. "You seem to have thought this through, Watson."

Robert turned to Esther to see if he could find an ally there. "What's your view, Doctor Cohen? You've experience with him going through detox; if it worked the traditional way before, why change it to a rapid approach under anaesthetic?"

She looked first at him, then at John. Slowly, thinking carefully. John worried about putting her on the spot, as she needed a good working relationship with both he and Toulson if she was to be effective for Sherlock.  Finally, she said, "I can't comment on the medical merits of the anaesthesia swap, but the idea of bringing Sherlock back to consciousness slowly has to be better, given what we've just seen. Based on past experience, once he's all there, he can cope with pain, despite his hypersensitivity- but it will be his choice. We just don't know what triggers the allydonia and hyperalgesia. But if we can give him a day or two to exercise his 'mind over matter' strategy, it generally works, provided that detox doesn't wreck him with anxiety and depression. So, in principle, I get the logic of stall at first and then push like hell. And Doctor Watson's right-if he thinks that it will get him out of here faster, then Sherlock might by-pass or at least lessen the depression that I've seen from him in the past when he's detoxed. So, yeah, I'd give him the choice, so long as he can demonstrate his competence to make that choice."

Toulson wasn't at all happy, but faced with two doctors who disagreed with him, he decided to stall. "I reserve judgement on the second half of your proposal. Let's wake him up the way you suggested, and then reconvene once we know how he is getting on with it."

John breathed a sigh of relief, not realising that he had been holding his breath while they talked.  _Progress! Let's just hope we can reach Sherlock this time._


	10. Ennui

"Bored."

He slipped out of his Westwood jacket, and pulled off his silk tie. His annoyance was clear, his movements sharpened by irritation.

He stopped and looked at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. His face screwed up into a frown and he shouted at his own reflection- "BORED!"

In the living room of the Kensington flat, Moran shifted uneasily as he heard the second, louder repetition of that word. The one word which he had learned to dislike more than almost any other from his boss.

"Moran." The word slipped out, silky, taunting. He turned to look at his boss who was eying him whilst leaning languidly against the doorframe.

"Yes?"

"Why am I surrounded by 'idjits'?" Moriarty gave the word a south London drawl, an Estuarine twang that sat uncomfortably with his usual Irish lilt.

Moran tried to contain his sigh.  _No need to show him that he scares me witless when he's like this._

"It's been days since I've had anyone interesting to play with. Criminals are boring. Consulting with them is becoming even more tedious than usual. Just what the hell are you and your people getting paid to do, if they aren't able to find me one consulting detective? I mean, is it so hard to do? Just find the bloody man and let's move on. You know how I hate stalemates. Annoying waste of time and IRRITATING AS HELL!"

"I told you, the Russians were pissed off at Holmes and Watson for busting up their trafficking ring. Form what my people have picked up, he's off recuperating somewhere at His Majesty's pleasure."

" _His_  majesty? Yes, appropriate enough moniker for someone who fancies himself as much as Mycroft Holmes does. But, Moran, just who the hell told the Russians how to prise Little Brother out of Baker Street? Under the nose of all the King's horses, and all the King's men? And where are they trying to put the pieces together again?"

Jim walked up to Moran and stood a little too close for the sniper's comfort. "You didn't let slip where Sherlock was to that lowlife, did you, Seb? You know that kind of enterprising behaviour would be just the sort of interference that could cost you your job and your life." He grabbed the sniper's lapel, crushing the cloth in his fist.

The blonde man just held his nerve, impervious to the steely gaze. Then he decided to risk it. "Whatever happened, it's done, surely time to move on."

Moriarty sniffed and let go of Seb's lapel. He walked over to the end table and pulled out a drawer. Seb stiffened. As Moriarty turned, he said in a whisper: "I agree, time to move on." The sniper found himself looking down the barrel of a Strizh pistol. He heard the safety go off. "Might it have been little jealous striped feline who let Ivan in on the secret? Hmmm? Cat got your tongue, Moran?"

Sebastian stood still, silent and unmoved. There was nothing he could do. He wasn't close enough to try to attack, and yet too close to have a reasonable chance to run and dodge the inevitable bullet that would come if he tried. So, he just toughed it out.  _What happens, happens._

The silence grew longer. Moran felt a tiny rivulet of sweat drip down the centre of his chest, between his pectoral muscles. Then, just when he thought he could bear it no longer, he blinked. Moriarty then burst into manic laugher. "Oh, you are a cool bastard, aren't you?" He pointed the gun away.

"I know what you did, and on the one hand I just might be flattered." Here Jim put on a little coy look, a come-on. "You actually were jealous; poor little tiger, thinks daddy doesn't love him anymore."

He walked up to Seb, as if daring him to take advantage of proximity to attack. Then, when the sniper made no move, Moriarty viciously slapped his face.

"Oh, Looky! Lucky you- it wasn't the hand that held the gun. You see your pre-emptive strike leaves me in a quandary. Where shall I move on  _to_ , Seb, darling? That's the 64 million dollar question. I spent all that money and effort to set up my little recruitment drive and, thanks to you, I still don't know if the big bad brother has locked up the little one because he was going to come play with me, or whether he's turned me down. So, do I destroy him because he's the enemy, or do I liberate him, seduce him and live happily ever after? You see, I just HATE faffing about, and getting it wrong. I'm in a position, I tell you- don't know if this is requited love or unadulterated hatred that I should be experiencing."

The blonde man stiffened his shoulders and decided to keep brazening it out. No choice, really. If he ever did get pissed off enough to have a go, he knew his days would be numbered. He'd seen Moriarty's contingency plans. So, he just replied in as cool a manner as he could muster. "Surely, your offer has lapsed. Big Brother reeled him in and has thrown away the key, so by now it's academic what the freak thought. He's out of the game. Now it should be a straight fight between you and the right Holmes, which you will win. You've got every conceivable lever to pull against him."

"You think that's flattery? It isn't- you're insulting my intelligence. One Holmes is rather too easy to beat, Seb. Want more fun; want to take on both of them- now that's a worthy game. Need to provoke Big Brother, but to pull that particular noose tighter, I need the Iceman to try something stupid. Now that Little Brother is side-lined that is less likely. God, I hate passive aggressives! Just so tedious, all this waiting around for him to do something stupid, so I can take advantage of it to get my angels to apply some pressure."

He looked around the flat. "I really don't like this place. Looks like some fecking hotel. I'm starting to go stir crazy. Want to go out and thumb my nose at a CCTV camera just to get something going. Might do that…or think of something else to rattle the bars of Sherlock's cage. His brother won't be able to hold onto him forever; he's just way too egotistical to sit tight."

Moriarty sneered at Moran. "You know what? Killing you would be too easy, too tedious- and a waste of time. I need to concentrate on more worthy opponents." He turned away and placed the gun back in the drawer.

"Now what little temptation can I lay that will get the Iceman into the game again?" He threw himself down into the leather chair, stretched out his legs and put his hands together under his chin. A wicked grin slipped onto the Irishman's face. "Pour me a glass of wine, Sebastian- time for Daddy to think up another dastardly plan."


	11. Trying Again

This time waking Sherlock up would be done differently. John had asked Esther Cohen if he could lower sensory stimuli to the bare minimum; "In an ideal world, how would it be done?"

Her instructions were clear: "Do it at night, keep the lights off, except for the bare minimum to see what you are doing. Turn the air conditioning off, open a window. Keep the corridors empty, dark and the nursing staff as far away as possible. Turn the machines off unless they are absolutely vital, and those shouldn't have any audio- no beeps, whirrs or clicks. Limit the number of people in the room; ideally just you- because he's used to your scent and trusts you. Let him keep his eyes shut for however long he wants to; has to be his choice. Actually, come to think of it, it would be best to change the sheets on his bed to at least a five hundred thread count, hundred per cent cotton. And either ditch the hospital gown completely or get something in silk or a hundred percent cotton for him to wear. It's hard to imagine, but when he's in this state, wearing clothes actually hurts. "

She thought a bit, then continued, "Don't touch him at all. Speak in the softest voice you can without whispering and keep it  _very_  simple. Let him initiate conversation. Above all else, given what happened last time, let him make the decisions. Use a patient controlled analgesia unit. If he uses it to send himself back under, then so be it."

John followed her instructions to the letter. At half past midnight, he was ready. Esther Cohen and Robert Toulson agreed to keep their distance; they were in the briefing room, watching what was going on through CCTV footage. The patient had been on the oxygen mask for 12 hours, then 2 hours on and 2 hours off for another 8,. Finally, the mask had been replaced by a nasal cannula. For the first time since John had laid eyes on Sherlock in the trauma room over a week ago, his friend now looked ...like Sherlock, rather than a critically injured patient.

John closed off the anaesthetic IV feed and switched on the PCA. He controlled the dose, lowering it slowly in increments every three minutes, keeping an eye on the single battery powered monitor, which displayed pulse, blood pressure and oxygen saturation levels. No sounds, just a digital display of the numbers. He'd called in a favour with some military people; treatment sometimes needed to be silent in battle conditions. The rest of the equipment in the room had been switched off, even the air conditioning. A window was opened slightly to let in the cool night air.

Sufentanil is really quick acting and short lived, so altering the dose brought about a change quickly. After six minutes Sherlock's pulse picked up, and his breathing became shallower. John cut back the drug a bit more. Sherlock's thumb on his right hand twitched, and his head turned slightly to the right, where John was seated, waiting. A ragged breath and a wince of pain, but nothing more.

It took almost ten minutes more. "John?" It was hardly more than a whisper. His voice was croaky, and it sounded like he had phlegm in his throat.

"I'm here, Sherlock." He didn't say anything more, and just waited. He hoped he wouldn't need to use suction to clear the phlegm.

Sherlock coughed and then groaned. "Hurts…"

"I know. There's something you can do about it. I'm handing you a control, just push it if you want some pain relief." He pushed the PCA device into Sherlock's right hand, and was relieved to see his friend's fingers curl around it, and a decisive push given to the button. He had set the parameters earlier to stop dispensing if Sherlock wanted too much, but the machine would not indicate anything other than it was responding, relying on the placebo effect.

Sherlock's breathing steadied. He didn't open his eyes, but his voice sounded stronger when he asked quietly, "Where are we?"

"Deduce it."

That brought the tiniest of smiles to the right side of Sherlock's mouth. In short whispers, he answered. "Not a hospital… too quiet; a clinic? Yes, private facility ….where else would let me have sheets like these? …somewhere out of London."

"How'd you figure that last bit out?" John asked, a little surprised.

"No traffic noise. …window's open and I can smell grass, leaf mold, damp earth…besides, Mycroft will want me out of the way."

This made John smile. "Well, you haven't missed anything this time."

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, and John found himself smiling into those grey green irises.  _Just slight pupil constriction, he's got the pain under control now at a low enough dose._

"My mouth's really dry."

John picked up something from the bedside table. "Open up and I can do something about that." He sprayed inside Sherlock's mouth. Before he could even ask, John answered the question: "It's from a combination- the drugs, the oxygen and a bit of dehydration."

"What's the damage, doctor?" This was said with a slight air of boredom, as if to minimise what he would have guessed was coming.

"Well, to use your transport analogy, you're off the road, Sherlock. Broken and cracked ribs, flail chest, pneumonia- that's why it hurts to cough- a lot of nasty bruising to your left lung and right kidney, you were drugged. Do you remember anything?"

Watching the camera feed in the briefing room, Esther shifted in her chair. Was John pushing too fast? Getting Sherlock to remember the traumatic circumstances of his abduction, beating and abuse might trigger distress and push him right back into a shutdown.

"Yeah, but you should see the other guy."

John snorted at that. Sherlock was playing back his own comment that John had made the first time he'd been knocked unconscious by a suspect and taken to hospital with a black eye and concussion.

Then Sherlock's smile faded and dropped off completely. "I may have killed him. I'm not sure I checked his pulse before I escaped; things are a bit blurry."

"It was self-defence, Sherlock. His name was Vladimir Kropitkin, a Russian thug from that trafficking ring we caught four months ago." John watched his friend's face, worrying about whether the time was right to raise the subject.

Sherlock was now watching John, using his peripheral vision. "The Russian wasn't in charge. It was Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's sniper."

John drew in a sharp breath.  _I owe Moran big time for both of us then, next time I meet the bastard._ "So, did you tell Moriarty to piss off?" The question was posed cautiously.

"Never got the chance." Sherlock coughed again, and this time his forehead creased with pain. John watched as his friend pushed the button on the PCA again. When he had his breathing back under control, Sherlock continued, "Moran…I underestimated him. He made sure I missed Moriarty's deadline."

John decided he had to take the chance, the unasked question that had been worrying both him and Esther Cohen. "Sherlock, there were also signs of anal bleeding, and a condom where they found you. I need to know if we have to keep you on prophylaxis antivirals."

To his immense relief, Sherlock looked him straight in the eyes for the first time and smiled.  _Not exactly appropriate as a reaction, but it will do,_ John thought.

"I killed the Russian with a dose of cardiac paralytic, made on our kitchen table. I stored it in an anal cylinder... the only thing I could come up with that was likely to escape a full body search." Talking took breath, so he stopped for a moment. "He didn't exactly give me a lot of time to retrieve it, and I had just been given a dose of a narcotic, so I wasn't particularly nimble fingered." He snorted, the smile still on his lips. "You can tell Mycroft to relax, my virtue is still intact."

Back in the conference room, Esther did just that, relaxed back in her chair. She was also marvelling at the scene unfolding on the screen before her. Sherlock, talking directly, honestly, engaging in eye contact and not in any way avoiding the conversation, despite the horrific details.  _My God, John Watson, you're a bloody miracle worker. What have you done to him?_


	12. Revelations before Recovery

The next morning, the medical team inserted the pleural drain. Unpleasant, a bit painful and something that the patient should be awake for it to work at its best. John introduced Toulson to Sherlock, who didn't even look at him, but kept his eyes on his friend. Once the drain was in place, Sherlock made surprisingly quick progress. John stayed with him. Within an hour his temperature was nearly back to normal, and his breath volume had improved. He started drinking water, and complaining that he wanted the IVs and Foley removed. "Later, Sherlock, just give your body a chance to catch up, will you?" 

That afternoon John talked him into nebuliser therapy. Sherlock certainly didn't enjoy it, having to sit up and breathe in salbutamol and atrovent.

"It's disgusting, John."

"Maybe, Sherlock, but it's doing wonders for the pneumonia, so just ten more minutes."

It actually took a little longer, because of two interruptions for severe coughing fits. Sherlock doubled over with the pain of his moving ribs; coughing was just agony. He was still using the PCA and kept pressing it.

"Just hang in there; the coughing is actually helping, even if it hurts like hell." John rubbed the back of Sherlock's left hand, trying to give him something else to concentrate on, rather than his ribs. When the nebulizer session was over, Touslon started to use his stethoscope to listen to Sherlock's lung function. Sherlock flinched as first the cold instrument and then an unfamiliar hand touched his back. He tensed up and said quietly, "John."

John stood up and reached for the stethoscope. Doctor Toulson reluctantly handed it over, and then watched John conduct the examination, with gentle taps. "It's called auscultatory percussion, Sherlock, helps us figure out whether the drugs are working."

"I know. John. I've had pneumonia before."

"When?" John was puzzled, because none of that nine inch pile of medical records had mentioned a previous case of pneumonia.

"When I was sixteen. I got treated at a walk-in clinic at UCH on Gower Street."

When he was living rough on London's streets, then, and probably using an assumed name or false ID.

John sighed. "Then you should have known better than to smoke. That's going to definitely stop after this."

He realised just what at toll the therapy was taking when Sherlock did not reply with his usual snarky comment. Instead, when John finished the pale brunet just slid back down into the bed and closed his eyes, clearly exhausted by the whole process.

"Need to sleep, but the pain keeps me awake; have to press the damn button."

"Shall I switch to a drip? It will let you sleep a while. "

Sherlock nodded, and released the control. Within a few minutes, he was deep asleep.

oOo

Esther Cohen had left the medical team to do its stuff. Once Sherlock's injuries and illness were under control, then she'd make herself known to him, before that would risk de-stabilising his willingness to co-operate. He would be able to deduce her reasons for being there, and so far John had deftly danced around the issue of just why Sherlock was in a facility miles from London.

When John emerged from Sherlock's hospital room, she met him with a coffee. "I've got some sandwiches in the staff room. I can bring them up to the briefing room, if you want some privacy for this conversation?"

He nodded. Relations with Toulson were still fragile. He didn't want to be overheard.

John had not realised how hungry he was until he started eating. Once his mouth was full of ham and cheese, Esther began. "You are amazing, John Watson." That made him look up and stop chewing.

"You have no idea, do you? Well, I suppose medical files are long on facts and short on the really important things. For the past twenty one years, I've watched Sherlock refuse to work with anyone or anything medical. He  _hates_  doctors. And probably with good reason."

"After yesterday's abortive attempt to wake him up, I thought he'd be in a bad way today. I've seen him withdrawn or angry in a hospital, but you made him smile within a minute of waking up. You know, I don't think I've ever seen him  _really_  smile," she said wistfully. "I don't mean that fake thing he uses. It fools most people, his mother taught him well, so he can act as if he is normal. But the only true emotions he's ever let me see are anger and fear. Actually, I'm wrong; there is a third- despair. I've seen that too often for my taste."

He took another bite of the sandwich,  as she continued, "And, I don't know what magic dust you sprinkle, but Sherlock is more honest with you than I've seen him be with anyone. He's not crafting every word to figure out how to manipulate you into drawing the conclusion he wants you to draw. My God, John, he  _likes_  you. Do you have any idea what that means?"

John swallowed. "He's my friend. My best friend. But, I'm beginning to get the idea that comes with a whole load of things I hadn't really thought of before." He smiled ruefully. "And I'm not just talking about the risks of getting clobbered by criminals, kidnapped by crooks, or abducted by Mycroft for another one of his little chats."

She chuckled, but then her smile faded to be replaced by a cautious look. "Is there anything else you need to tell me about your relationship with Sherlock?"

"No!" He choked a little on the next bite of sandwich going down. He caught her insinuation and shook his head emphatically. "It's not like that; we're not a couple. I'm not gay and well, God only knows what Sherlock is, but he's certainly not after that from me."

"So, what is he after?"

"I don't know. An audience? A colleague willing to come along and lend a hand during a case? Someone who is a bit more talkative than the skull on the mantelpiece back in the flat? Someone to help pay the rent? Or, maybe, just a friend? You tell me, you've studied his thinking more than anyone else apart from Mycroft, and known him for twenty years. Surely, if anyone other than Sherlock can answer that question, it's you."

She looked thoughtful. "I suppose you are the one authentic relationship he's ever had. Well, possibly excepting his mother, but that was before my time, so I can't really comment." She leaned forward "I will say this, he's let you in under the barbed wire, and over the stone walls. He's put the safety on his machine guns. You connect- and by God, he's going to need that over the next few weeks. I need to know more about his cocaine use. We've still got to get him through detox John, and that won't be a piece of cake. And after that, there's his brother to deal with."

"What do you mean? What's Mycroft got to do with it?"

She shook her head sadly. "Everything, John, everything. Drugs and Mycroft are all part of the same issue for Sherlock, and for the life of me, I've never, ever been able to figure out why. Sherlock's never told me, and Mycroft claims not to know. But we've got the same explosive combination now, and it worries me."

John finished the sandwich, and he took a long pull at the coffee through the plastic lid. "I've read the files, but there is nothing in there to explain  _why_  Sherlock started taking drugs in the first place. Mycroft implied that it was self-medication, related to Sherlock's need to control his mind, but there is more, isn't there, things that aren't in the files, things you haven't told me?"

"John, there are lots of things that Sherlock has never told me. That doesn't mean I don't know them to be true. What little he has said to me was in confidence. And, I am not sure that knowing them would help you. Telling you might eliminate all hope of him ever trusting me again in the future. The knowledge hasn't helped me stop him using drugs all these years."

The doctor realised that Esther Cohen was backing away a little from the conversation, but he was not willing to let it go.

"Just before Sherlock was assaulted, I witnessed an argument between him and Mycroft. It was pretty vicious stuff. I mean, I've seen them bicker and snipe at each other for the past two years, but this was different. At one point, Sherlock accused Mycroft of becoming like their father. What did that mean?"

The psychiatrist looked away for a moment. "That accusation would have pained Mycroft, and I think it was perhaps one of the most hurtful things Sherlock has ever said to his brother. It's also not true."

"Then explain to me why he said it."

She looked down at her folded hands on the table. The silence grew. Just when he thought she was going to claim client confidentiality stopped her from saying anything, she started.

"When I first heard about Richard Holmes, I was impressed. He was a bold, successful businessman who seemed to be coping well with the recent death of his wife. He had a reputation as a powerful, charismatic man. But reality was different from the image. The first time I met him, he made it clear that he thought Sherlock was defective- that’s the word he used. All he cared about was Mycroft. I actually met Mycroft first- up at Oxford, when he asked for my help in tracking down where his father might have sent Sherlock, after their mother died. He wouldn’t tell Mycroft- said it was best if he forgot all about his brother.”

She drew breath, then sighed. “It was hard for Mycroft, who had loved and respected his father before all this. But I quickly came to realise that the man Mycroft knew was not the same man that Sherlock experienced. To his father, Sherlock could do nothing right. In our one subsequent meeting, Richard said I was wasting my time trying to treat Sherlock. He had known something was 'wrong' with the boy even before he was diagnosed as being on the autistic spectrum. He made no secret of his frustration and resentment that his wife had spent so much time with Sherlock; at one point, he actually said to me that he blamed Sherlock's neediness as the reason why Violet Holmes neglected her own health. In effect, that's blaming Sherlock for his wife's death. She did give a lot to her youngest son- home-schooled him so well, teaching him how to channel his behaviour into socially acceptable forms and doing everything she could to keep that amazing brain occupied. But, I totally get it that it would be a full time occupation, and that a husband could feel jealous. It's a shame but true, divorce stats for parents of ASD children are higher than normal. "

She took a sip from her own bottle of water, before continuing. "Richard told me that he felt much more comfortable with Mycroft, preferring to spend his family time with his elder son. In principle, I have some sympathy with that. An autistic child is never, ever easy, John. Lots of parents feel that the disorder is somehow their fault, and being confronted with their guilt on a daily basis is tough. To a so-called normal sibling, the attention paid to an autistic child can seem disproportionate. So, being close to his father would have helped Mycroft get over a sense of neglect. But Richard's disaffection with Sherlock would have become even more apparent once Mycroft left for boarding school at 14. According to Mycroft, when his brother was between the age of seven and ten, Violet made huge strides with Sherlock's ability to cope, but his father just started disappearing on longer overseas business trips."

Esther's face saddened. "Before my time, but Mycroft told me the first time we met about his mother's death, and how his father took it out on Sherlock. When Mycroft finally tracked him down and got Sherlock was discharged from the clinic seven months later, he was kept away from his father, left to the capable hands of hired carers for the most part. I guess I was one of them. I certainly wasn't the first psychiatrist he'd seen, nor the last; he must have seen six or seven over his lifetime, I think."

John interrupted here. "Mycroft told me that Sherlock was so clever that he could figure out what a psychiatrist wanted to hear, and then tell them that. He thought it was a game. How did that play out with you?"

"It took me a while to catch on, but I did. That said, Richard Holmes didn't want to know what I thought, which was that Sherlock shouldn't be pigeon-holed. Personally? I think that Sherlock is PDD-NOS - in other words, not normal but we haven't really got a clue how or why. He fits some autism symptoms spot on, but has no trace of others. Holmes Senior didn't want to know. His son was "broken"- to hell with how badly or in what way. He just wanted the autism label so he could justify farming out the care of his defective child to some special needs institution. I wasn't prepared to give him that."

"I found an ally in Mycroft, who was so angry with his father about it that he managed to get legal guardianship of his brother. After Mycroft graduated from university, his work took him overseas a lot. I thought that Sherlock could cope with a proper school and we managed to convince a school. So, Sherlock started boarding school at Harrow when he was fourteen, and things seemed to improve. I didn't see him for nearly two years. When I did, his father was dead, but he seemed to be ok, planning on Cambridge in the following year. But then, before he could get there, he disappeared. When Mycroft finally found him six months later, Sherlock was addicted to drugs. It was a big shock. Mycroft contacted me and asked me to treat Sherlock while he was in rehab."

John looked at the psychiatrist, and said quietly, "He's a repeat offender from what I've heard. In rehab on a regular basis, gets clean, keeps it going for a while and then falls off the wagon. Does his drug use have a specific trigger?

"Maybe yes, maybe no. ASDies have a tendency to drug abuse. And Sensory Processing Disorder creates a predilection for chemical experimentation in an attempt to control what's going on. There were other circumstances, too, which might have led him down that path to start. When Sherlock was fifteen, he broke his arm in a riding accident, during the summer when he was home from school. I learned later that it was a particularly nasty break, and that he had morphine for pain relief. Richard Holmes died two months later. I tried to get him to talk about it, but Sherlock announced that he was 'done' with psychiatrists. Some years later he told me that was when he'd decided he was a sociopath, because he had absolutely no emotional reaction to his father's death."

"The odd thing was, according to Mycroft, whatever was going on in Sherlock’s head didn't interfere with his academic performance that year, so he didn't suspect anything. There was a bullying incident in Sherlock’s last year, but he dealt with it sensible. Mycroft saw the school reports, and assumed everything was alright. They weren't exactly talkative; you can imagine Sherlock as a moody teenager who wanted little to do with an absentee brother. On the few occasions when they were home at the same time, Mycroft said Sherlock wouldn't talk to him for days on end."

John smirked. "Little change there then."

"Sherlock passed his exams with flying colours, and got accepted into Trinity College, Cambridge. But, the summer before going up to university, Sherlock went completely off the rails. He disappeared for six months, living homeless on the streets of London. Even for a normal teenager that is challenging. For an autistic, even a high functioning one….well, I will leave you to imagine what sort of life he must have had."

"And where was Mycroft when this was happening?" John could hardly keep the accusation out of his tone.

"He was on assignment overseas when Sherlock first went missing, so he hired private detectives, alerted social services, filed a missing person report. As soon as he could he came home, tried to find his brother himself, but failed. In the end, the police took Sherlock into custody because he was at a homicide crime scene underage and under the influence of drugs. Mycroft found himself in charge of an angry, uncommunicative teenage addict. He called me."

She leaned forward again and looked John straight in the eye. "I will tell you this- not once in the years I've been treating him has Sherlock ever spoken to me the way he has been talking to you since you woke him up. That's why you're going to be in the driving seat to get him through detox and out the door of this place."

John sat back in surprise. "I'm not an expert, Esther. Hell, I barely passed my psych rotation at medical school. And I can't say that Afghanistan was exactly an opportunity to put any of what little I did learn to use. Typical army surgeon, I am. We stop the bleeding of unconscious patients, put the physical pieces back together again and ship them out- usually before they even wake up. Three tours of duty and I didn't have a single case where I used my psych training. There were other people who did that, trained professionals back home."

"Sherlock doesn't need a professional, John. He's been surrounded by them since he took his first baby steps. What he needs is the support of someone he cares about. And that's you."

"Don't be so sure about that, Esther. If he were here listening to you, he'd probably just turn up that aristocratic nose of his and sniff 'sentiment' and then stalk off. He prides himself on  _not_  feeling or caring."

"Well, let's hope you're wrong. He's going to need the only friend he thinks he's got to get him through both of the approaching storms."

When John looked puzzled at her choice of words, she went on "the first is detox, and the inevitable psychological disturbances that follow, the second is finding out just how long his brother is going to keep him in here. I've been here before, John, and it isn't pretty."


	13. Detox

When John went in the next morning, Sherlock was sound asleep. The only thing peeping out from the covers was the mass of dark curls.  _He's sleeping in a foetal position. Does that mean he's in pain?_

"Wake up, Sherlock. We've got things to do." Quietly, yet firmly.  When there was no reaction. John reached down and shook what he guessed was a foot under the covers. This elicited a groan. He didn't stop. "Come on, you can't sleep the day away."

"I can try." Muffled by the blanket, and no further movement.

"Nope, time to get the show on the road."

Slim fingers reached around the top of the bedclothes and then yanked them up even further, making the curls vanish.

"Not good enough. If you can do that, you can move." There was a muffled cough.

"Trying to go for sympathy won't work, Sherlock."

Nothing. "Come on, you slept all day yesterday."

"Humf." A tousled head appeared with a glower firmly attached. "I distinctly remember a session with that awful nebulizer. Was it a nightmare, or perhaps I was hallucinating?" Sherlock's voice was rough and raspy.

"Well, time to see if the stuff you breathed in yesterday is working." Now that he had Sherlock's attention, he wasn't going to let go.

"What's got you out of bed on the wrong side this morning?"

"You, so do me the courtesy of co-operating. I need to check the bandages."

Sherlock sighed. "Do your worst then,  _doctor."_ He pushed away the covers.

John inspected the various dressings- one covering the wound where the incisions had been made to stop the internal bleeding and fit the rib support. The other three were smaller bandages, protecting the wounds from the drains and the various cannula. All were healing nicely.  _Small mercies._  "I'll get the nurse to change those, but there is definite improvement."

He pulled out the stethoscope, and held it between his hands to warm it up. "Did you get up in the night for pee?"

"Yes,  _twice._  I never get up in the night, and it's a nuisance."

"Better than the Foley, though, am I right?" John now glared. "Sit up and lean forward." This was delivered as an order, in best Sergeant-Major style.

"Is this what the RAMC taught as bedside manner, John?" He didn't keep the sarcasm from showing, as he sat up gingerly, favouring his left side.

"If you're well enough to be sarky, then you are definitely getting better. Now be quiet while I listen." 

"Breathe in, and hold it." John counted four. "Now release." He listened again, then moved the stethoscope on to a different place on Sherlock's back. "Cough- for real this time."

Sherlock obliged. "Still hurts."

"And it will for the next month or so, most likely. Next time try not to piss off your captors to the point where they break ribs. Much quicker recovery time." John tried to keep his tone light-hearted and teasing, but the message was there, too. When he was done, he pulled the hospital gown across Sherlock's back again. "Stay warm."

Sherlock turned to look at John, catching the undercurrent. "What's got you worked up?" His concern was genuine.

John didn't answer at first, but fiddled with the IV drip.

"OK- the pneumonia is definitely on the mend. And the rest of you is healing, too. Can't postpone the inevitable any longer." He paused. "You have to start detoxing, today."

Sherlock looked away.

"They're going to replace the drip with a PCA again, only this time there will be much more limited access. You'll get ibuprofen tablets, or through the cannula, if you start feeling nauseous."

Sherlock was staring out the window. He said in a subdued tone, "there are several reasons why I haven't used morphine since I was sixteen, and never really got into heroin. But the one injection isn't enough to cause withdrawal, so this is about the cocaine."

John nodded. "Plus the morphine you've been on since the surgery. Well, this time, the heroin and morphine weren't your fault, but the cocaine is. Why, Sherlock, why? It just doesn't make sense. You used when you were hiding out with the homeless. What possible reason could you have had?"

Sherlock wouldn't meet his eye. The silence grew. Eventually, Sherlock sighed. "I needed to concentrate. Cocaine helps me to focus. And I needed to focus, so I used it while I was on the streets. Moriarty is going to destroy us- you, me and Mycroft. Answers weren't coming, so I didn't have a choice."

John put his hand on his friend's chin and pulled Sherlock's head around so that he could look him in the eye. He felt the flinch as physical contact was made, but it didn't stop him.

"You  _always_  have a choice, Sherlock, and you made the wrong one, by not talking to me first.  _Don't ever make the same one again, if you expect to keep me as a friend."_

He let go when Sherlock pulled back, but was grateful that he didn't break off eye contact. "Well, now that I've got that off my chest, let's talk about what comes next. I do have a proposition for you, a way to speed things up. You could decide to do an ultra-rapid detox under sedation. It involves putting you under and then a high dose of naltrexone. It takes four to six hours. You don't escape the withdrawal symptoms; they're there when you wake up with a vengeance, but, it should be shorter and relapse rates are much lower. I'm hoping that you are motivated enough to make it work instead of a slow taper programme. It is riskier, in terms of your respiration and there’s a chance of vomiting while under sedation, so Toulson isn't keen. "

"If it's quicker, then I want to do it."

"I wish it was as simple as that. Before your views can be counted into the decision, you have to pass a psych evaluation. And it has to happen when you are no longer under the influence of the opiate."

Sherlock groaned. "I  _hate_  shrinks."

"We have four hours to wean you off this stuff, and get a meal into you. You should be able to keep it down until after the withdrawal starts, no matter which method we go for. It will help in passing the assessment, so, for once, no arguments."

Sherlock just sighed and sank back down under the blankets, turning away from John.

oOo

After picking at his lunch, and managing to get about half of it down, Sherlock was in a grumpy mood. The pain was definitely worse. "Non-steroid anti-inflammatory analgesia". He rolled the phrase off his tongue with distain. "NSAIDs don't work, John, don't even make a dent. The biochemistry does not function properly with my system. Total waste of money, might as well not bother."

"Stop whining. I know it hurts, but just try channelling all that aggro into something a bit more useful. Whining won’t impress a psychiatrist."

Sherlock smirked. "You sound nervous, John. Think I'm going to flunk this, do you?"

John brought his head down to the point where he could look Sherlock right in the eyes. "I think you're going to unleash your usual sarcastic deductions and blast the hell out of any medical professional who dares to question you. So, yeah, I'm worried. I want  _you_  to make this decision on the basis of informed consent, so I don't have to wave that piece of paper around. The longer I can leave that little ace up our sleeve, the better. Mycroft is going to be singularly pissed when he learns about it."

Sherlock just looked back at him, thoughtfully. Whatever retort he might have made was interrupted by the sound of the electric door lock releasing, and Doctor Cohen walked in.

John watched as Sherlock's face changed from curiosity about who entered to recognition- and then to outright anger. "What the hell are  _you_  doing here?"

Esther just looked at him. "Well, clearly the drugs are still interfering with your powers of deduction, Sherlock. If you'd really thought about it, I am sure you would have guessed that I'd be involved."

"And I don't get any say in this, do I?" He spat out the question.

"No, I am afraid not. Mycroft asked, I agreed, and I've been here for the past three days, waiting for you to be physically fit enough to detox."

"I don't need you for this."

"Yes, you do. If I think you're not able to give informed consent, then Mycroft gets to make the decision about which way to do it- and everything else about your treatment, too."

Sherlock crossed his arms and shot a filthy look at John, who raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Hey, don't blame me. Technically, I'm not even allowed to treat you, but both Toulson and Esther Cohen here have been willing to turn a blind eye to my involvement up to now. But, from here on, it has to go by the book. So, just answer her damn questions straight, and let's get on with it."

Esther wasn't fazed by Sherlock's antipathy. "John, I am sorry but I have to ask you to leave now. He has to do this on his own." John nodded, and walked out.

oOo

The case conference was held in the briefing room on the floor below where Sherlock's room was. Doctors Cohen, Toulson and Patel were there, and John, as Sherlock's patient advocate.

Esther ran her fingers through her grey hair and took a deep breath before starting. That worried John.

"On the one hand, Sherlock is more articulate and together than I've ever seen him before when he's been in this state. That's the good news. There are clear signs, however, of agitation and anxiety. At first he tried to play me back all the answers he knew I wanted to hear, but as soon as I went off the standard questionnaire, that got harder for him. I definitely  _don't_  think he is suicidal, and he is not manifesting the typical depression phase yet- no listlessness, or inability to concentrate to what you or I would call normal levels, even if that's way below his usual level of focus. But he is clearly worried about being locked up here. He's suspicious of me, and Mycroft; he thinks that you, Doctor Toulson, are one of "Mycroft's minions"- so a little paranoia in there. He's in control of his emotions, but I can tell that he is afraid of detox and getting through withdrawal."

John spoke up first. "Well, that's understandable, given that he's been through it before. Sounds rational to me."

Robert Toulson didn't look convinced. "Will the fear and anxiety mean that he goes for a quick fix, rather than the more conventional approach? Will his state of mind unduly influence his choice? Can he really make an informed choice if he is ignoring the risks, just for the sake of expediency?"

"Actually, I'm less concerned by that than by another factor in his making a choice. I do think he is competent to make an informed choice now, but, whatever you recommend to him, John, he is going to accept. He trusts you to a surprising degree. Can  _you_  really be sure that rapid detox is the best way to proceed? I mean, you aren't qualified to do the procedure, and it is riskier."

It was something that had been worrying John, too. "Ok, I agree with you that I'm no expert. But, unlike you, I've seen it done. In the field, under really difficult conditions in Afghanistan. I was a forward surgeon, and we handled casualties from other forces. An American was brought in, accompanied by an intelligence team- he'd been rescued from a Taliban compound, where he'd been held for months- and drugged. I watched the Yanks put him through a rapid detox, because they desperately needed the intel before he was shipped off home. It worked; the guy was a mess when he was brought in, but he walked out a week later clean."

Toulson wasn't impressed. "The NICE guidelines disagree. They don't recommend its use in the UK."

John frowned. "That was years ago, and things have improved since then. It's done in the USA and has a ten year track record. Look, I know the UK doesn't do this often- partly because of the expense, but that isn't an issue here." Last night, he'd spent most of the time reading up on the latest medical journal research about the efficacy of the procedure. And he'd made a few calls, too. "I've now had a chance to look into the risks. Given his tolerance to high doses of opiates, I don't see suppression of respiration as an issue; his lung function has improved dramatically over the past 56 hours. I'd also administer an anti-nausea drug before sedation to lower the risk of aspiration."

Robert wasn't convinced. "We don't have anyone on our staff qualified to do this procedure."

John had a counter-argument. "There is a private clinic within an hour's drive, with a good reputation for doing URD, so we can get support."

"I don't think his brother is going to be happy about moving him, for security reasons."

"Then bring the clinic's staff here for the procedure."

"Can they be vetted in time?"

"Why do they have to be? They don't have to be told who he is; just take the name off the file."

Esther intervened, hearing the heat rising in their voices. "Just hold on, both of you. John's right, it is possible to do it; the question remains whether it is better to do it." She thought about it. "I want to give Sherlock the right to decide, but I'm going to talk to Mycroft first." With that, she headed out in the corridor, pulling her phone out of her pocket as she exited.

oOo

To John's surprise, the decision was made to give Sherlock the choice. Mycroft had not disagreed, and Robert Toulson then felt more comfortable with the decision. The team from the clinic arrived that evening, and reviewed the case file, where the name of the patient had been redacted. They understood it was a matter of national security and signed the Official Secrets Act. Sherlock wanted to press ahead that night, but they had refused, saying that 8am would be better; his metabolism would be higher in the morning. They also insisted in his eating a proper meal for dinner. John sat with him, until every mouthful went down.

Esther Cohen had been right. He could tell that Sherlock was on edge, anxious and uncomfortable. "How's the pain?" John asked between mouthfuls of his own dinner. He had decided to eat with Sherlock, in the hope that the companionship would encourage him to make more of an effort.

"Horrible."

"What in particular hurts?"

"Everything."

John kept chewing. He wasn't sure what to say, because he knew that no words could make it easier for Sherlock.

Sherlock poked his fork aggressively into a sodden lump of cabbage leaf. "What possesses a hospital to think that a patient would want to eat this?"

"Five a day, Sherlock. Even you. Your immune system has been trashed and you need the nutrition. Just hold your nose and chew."

"It's not the smell- that's revolting enough, but I can tolerate it. The texture is the issue. It's aggressively soft, yet at the same time chewy."

"Isn't that a contradiction?"

"It's what my brain tells me. Texture is one of the hardest parts of eating for me."

"Cabbage is good for you."

Sherlock glowered at him. "I know that. Cabbage is a scavenger of reactive oxygen radicals, both superoxide and hydroxyl varieties, as well as hypochlorous acid. It sequesters, metabolises and accumulates phenolics. Doesn't mean that it has a nice texture, however."

John looked at the cabbage on the end of his fork, and then put it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "It's ok, not brilliant, but not that bad. I've had much worse in the army."

Sherlock put his fork down and pushed the plate away. "Pain is odd- it actually makes my whole mouth taste bitter; the neural stimulation disrupts my sense of taste, warps it into something distinctly unpleasant."

That's when John realised just how much Sherlock was dreading the detox. Even a rapid version couldn't avoid pain. And once it was done, there could be no more opiate pain relief for months to come. Even if withdrawal was quicker, they both knew he'd be on naltrexone for the next three months. John found himself hoping that his friend's ribs would heal in a hurry.


	14. First Attempt

Mycroft looked at the photos of the body of his agent, lying on the street. The rain had soaked through his jacket and clothes, diluting the puddle of blood that spread out from under the body. It has been a drive-by body dump, like something out of Hollywood. The black taxi had been tracked from the moment it started burning rubber and the sounds of rapid acceleration down Horseferry Road were detected by the MI5 perimeter surveillance team. When that cab did a handbrake turn onto Thorney Street, the team was already mobilised. It took only four seconds for the cab to cover the distance alongside Thames House before taking another hand brake turn onto Page Street. Just as it made the start of the turn, the front right door opened and a body was kicked out. The taxi was stopped 100 feet away, surrounded, and a very terrified cabbie emerged with his hands up shouting "Don't shoot, don't shoot; he's got my family hostage!"

Jason Wright. Thirty two years old, a qualified accountant who decided that undercover work for Mycroft's team was more interesting than the usual boring audit clients. Mycroft thought it right to put a name to the body in the photo, after all, it was his responsibility that the man was now dead. Wright had been given a perfect cover story, and a proposition tailor-made to appeal to one consulting criminal. He'd found financial irregularities at one of the City's most successful international hedge funds, whilst doing a routine audit. Tired of being overlooked for promotion by his accountancy firm, the young man's story was that he'd decided to use his knowledge to leverage an under-the-table consulting fee, which would make the information he had found disappear. All he needed was the Consulting Criminal's advice about who in the hedge fund company would be most susceptible to such a reasonable request.

It should have worked. Mycroft had thought it all out very carefully. Wright was good; very well trained and yet with a perfect 'skin', any background checks would have come up with the facts to prove his authenticity. He worked for one of the best audit firms in the world, had a girlfriend working in the City. No one knew that he was working for Mycroft on the side, not traceable to MI5 or 6. That part was necessary these days, as Mycroft had come to realise that Moriarty would have infiltrated both of the intelligence services; there must be a few of his 'dark angels' working undercover. But he had not anticipated that someone inside his own service would be susceptible. That changed things. 

He sighed. _It should have worked._

In one sense, it had, in that the bait had attracted Moriarty's attention, and no wonder. One of the biggest problems for the Irishman's network was moving money around the world safely. He would always be on the lookout for new ways to launder the proceeds of his network, and a bent hedge fund manager would be a real trophy.

Maybe that was the problem- too good to be true, so it aroused suspicions? But, it had actually been real. He would not have risked an agent approaching Moriarty with anything that wasn't absolutely cast iron. Yet, somehow the Irishman had figured it out. The plastic tag in an envelope found in the body's jacket pocket made it clear. "Return to sender- Mycroft Holmes, Esq." The latter title, of course, was a subtle dig; the Irishman would know of his proper title, even if he didn't use it professionally.*

Not for the first time, Mycroft considered where the leak must be inside his own team. He wasn't MI5 or 6, and he had to rely on GCHQ like the rest of them, but he had never worried in the past about his own cadre of hand-picked agents. A small but perfectly formed group, which had always been trustworthy in the past. But, being meticulous in recruitment was all well and good, but could he guarantee that each and every one of them could be immune from Moriarty's pressures? After all, if their positions were reversed, it is exactly how he would attack. Unfortunately, Moriarty was more likely to be able to identify some of his people than he could track down the Irishman's known associates. And there was a difference, too, in that Moriarty would trust his people less, keep them more distant from his thinking. Mycroft's moves in this game had to be delivered by his own team, rather than farmed out to one of Moriarty's 'clients'. If he could no longer trust his people, then it would be even more difficult to defeat the Consulting Criminal. And time was pressing. He didn't want to keep Sherlock locked up indefinitely, so he needed a breakthrough soon, sometime in the next month.

In the meantime, it would be difficult to keep this first failure quiet. Voices had criticised his handling of Sherlock's "game" with the five bombs. They were certain to criticise yet another escalation in the increasingly visible conflict between Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes. It had been so… _public_ to throw the body on the steps of MI5. There would be people in the Security Services delighted at being able to disavow any knowledge or involvement in the trap, or its subsequent failure. They knew where to point the finger, and it wasn't at anyone in their building or across the Thames at Vauxhall. Mycroft sighed again.

Back to the drawing board. John Watson had confirmed that the photo of that woman's drinking companion was indeed Moriarty, and now the surveillance teams had an image, active scanning was underway. Hopefully, he'd break cover soon, and Mycroft could resume his pursuit.

Sitting in his usual chair at the Diogenes that evening, he sipped at his whiskey and considered. Mycroft knew he'd botched Round One; time to start Round Two. He folded his hands under his chin and began to think again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * in a story to be posted to Ao3 later today, you will learn Mycroft's "proper title". It's called "Entitled" and it is a five plus one, which I will post in its entirety.


	15. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Hold onto your hats! Some shocking revelations about Sherlock and Mycroft!

Eight days after detox, and Sherlock's mood was deteriorating. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms were beginning to ease; he had the nausea under control. The rapid detox procedure under anaesthetic had gone remarkably well, and the team brought in to do it had advised that after two weeks of naltrexone tablets, they recommended inserting an implant, which would distribute the required dosage for the next one to three months. Once in place, the implant would mean no need for Sherlock to be constantly made aware of his dependence, or arguments with John trying to get him to take the tablets daily. Any slip back into drugs after discharge from the clinic would be rendered useless by the opiate antagonist in his bloodstream. "That assumes I am going to be allowed out," growled Sherlock. 

Esther worried that his anxiety was escalating, and John couldn't do much to assuage her concerns. More than once, he and Sherlock had argued about just how long he was going to have to stay at the facility. The x rays showed the ribs were healing well, and also that the pneumonia was definitely on the mend. Sherlock wasn't coughing as much, either. Yet, for every improvement in his physical health, there came a corresponding worsening of his restlessness and irritation.

Yesterday afternoon, Sherlock's patience had finally snapped. "BORED!" He shouted it at the top of his lungs. He looked up at the camera in the corner of his hospital room and just let rip. "Mycroft, you get your fat butt down here NOW or I won't be held responsible for anything I might do or say by tomorrow. I might just send John back to London and ask him to instruct lawyers. This is unlawful imprisonment, and I am going to …what did you call it that last time we had this conversation? I'm going to 'throw all my toys out of the pram'. Show up and let's have an adult conversation for once, or you'll force me into doing something very childish." To be doubly sure that his message got across, he made a rude gesture to the camera involving his middle finger.

The black government car obligingly appeared at 9am the next morning. Ten minutes later, Mycroft was in a briefing room with Doctors Toulson, Cohen and Watson, and Sherlock was sulking in there, too. Tension was so high that no one seemed willing to begin. Predictably, it was Mycroft who eventually took charge. "Doctor Cohen, I believe you have had an opportunity to conduct an initial assessment of Sherlock's state of mind. The evidence from yesterday's little performance is suggestive."

She looked uncomfortable. "Yes, I have. But, so far, I have not determined whether there is sufficient cause to sign…the papers you want me to sign." It was as if she didn't want to call it the  _sectioning order_  for fear of what it might provoke Sherlock into doing or saying.

Sherlock was standing at the far end of the table, about as far as he could physically get from his brother and yet still be in the same room. He had insisted on being properly dressed; he wasn't prepared to look like he was in need of further medical attention. Back in his dark suit, he exuded confidence. "What's the matter, Mycroft? You look like you just sucked on a lemon. Found someone you can't manipulate to do your bidding?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, really looked at him. "I wouldn't have to do this, if you'd just see sense and agree to stay here until you are fully recovered. Even without the sectioning, I have the legal authority to act in your best interests."

"I'm good to go, brother dear. Both the dregs of the pneumonia and the bone fractures are healing nicely; thanks for not asking. But, oh, yes, of course, this isn't actually about your concern about my  _health_ , is it? You just want me out of the way. In the good old days, you could play God and confine me at your whim. Not anymore. John, explain the terms of our agreement."

John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft. He hated to get caught in the crossfire, but….

"Mycroft, you once said I had to choose a side, and I'm doing so now. Sherlock needs to get out of here, and I’m allowed to say that, because I'm exercising my rights as his medical power of attorney. The papers were filed with the authorities seven months ago, and they supersede yours." He pulled out a copy from the file on the table and slid it across the table toward the elder Holmes, who looked down at the paper in surprise.

Sherlock was exultant. "You can't hold me here without those sectioning papers. Toulson may be your tool, but I am capable of informed consent. And, it may come as a surprise, but…I.Don't.Consent. So, you have to let me go."

"I can't do that, Sherlock."

Sherlock was livid, and he raised his voice "Do I have to remind you that I'm now clean- and it wasn't my fault in the first case. I haven't had a breakdown. I don't need to be locked up to get over a cough and a few bruises. So, you have no reason to hold me here. "

"But, I do. Because you are a threat to yourself and to others. You cannot be trusted not to go after Moriarty yourself, no matter what the cost. This is too important to have you blundering around. You will just have to sit tight on the side-lines until I can solve this. "

"For God’s sake, Mycroft, stop this! Let me out!"

"No."

The silence was poisonous. Then Sherlock looked away from his brother for a moment, as if deciding something. When he returned his gaze to Mycroft, his voice was calm, measured and determined. "I'm done with this little charade. Time to tell John the real reason why you care about me staying alive. Go on, man up to it for once in your life; just tell the truth."

Mycroft looked blank. "What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

"I'm not talking about now, brother  _dear."_ The emphasis on the word 'dear' gave it every ounce of venom that Sherlock had in him. "Let's rewind the scene a little bit, shall we? Do you remember when you were six years old? Yes, I know, before my time. B.S- before Sherlock came along to mess up the little happy triangle of you, mummy and daddy dearest."

Mycroft looked perplexed. "What about it?"

"You were just six, only a couple of days after your birthday and you got sick. Remember it now? Little trips to the doctor and then the hospital? What did Mummy tell you it was?"

"I had scarlet fever. A nasty bout of it; kept in bed for a quite a while, then I got a bit better, then months later, I had a relapse. What of it?"

Sherlock walked over to his brother, and stared at him intently. "You really are a bloody good actor, you know. I'd almost believe you weren't lying if I didn't know better."

"You're making no sense."

"You had a rare form of  _leukaemia_ \- and no suitable bone marrow donors. Almost certainly fatal. Chemo helped for a little while but then it came back. A second round would have killed you before a transplant donor could be found. Father decided the latest research held the answer: stem cells from umbilical cord of a donor sibling. Ever wonder why there is a seven year gap between you and me? It's because our parents were happy with their perfect son and heir, until he got sick, and they needed a spare parts donor. Once the umbilical cord cells were harvested, they decided I was worth hanging onto, in case you needed my bone marrow, or an organ donation if the cancer metastasised."

"That's ...just ludicrous, Sherlock. You're…making this up!" Mycroft was absolutely appalled.

"Am I? How would I even know any of this, unless father told me? When I was thirteen. We had an argument, and I asked him why he even bothered to have a second child when they had you, given it was so clear what he thought of you and how he despised me. So, he told me the whole story. IVF and the first batch rejected because the match to you wasn't close enough. Second time lucky and they got me. Remember the relapse that put you back in hospital just after your seventh birthday? That's when mummy was seven months pregnant with me. Father managed to find a paediatrician who would induce labour early. Their reasoning was that even if I died they'd still be able to salvage the stem cells, and you'd be saved."

His voice was now calm again. "Don't look so surprised, Mycroft. Father told you all about it when I was twelve; he said so to me. You've known for years. That's why you obsess about keeping me under surveillance, why you  _care_  about me. It's entirely self-interested. If something goes wrong with you, you've got your built in safety net to turn to. "

"Father never told me anything like this, because it isn't true."

John had been stunned throughout the whole exchange. "Sherlock, there are no records of this in your medical files."

"Think of the date, John. Father's business was a pharmaceutical company specialising in genetic research. What he did wasn't even published as a hypothetical procedure, let alone approved by the medical authorities. It was illegal, unethical and the doctors involved would have been struck off if anyone discovered it. It took another eight years before it was legal. So, are we surprised that there are no records? He was Richard Holmes, he would and could do anything to save his beloved son. I was just a means to an end for him."

He turned back to Mycroft, who was sitting on the edge of the briefing room table now, lost in thought. "In the summer before I went up to Cambridge I read a journal article about transplants, and discovered that donors are rejected if they've used drugs. Gave me just the excuse I needed to go beyond casual use into something a little more damaging; I thought you'd leave me alone if I was useless to you as an insurance policy. And I discovered another advantage of my having lived rough on the streets of London. Lots of nasty pathogens you can pick up, enough to rule me out as a donor for years."

The look on Mycroft's face showed just how much this was affecting him. The carefully composed neutral civil service persona had been dropped. In its place was sadness, tinged with real emotional pain. He glanced over to Doctor Cohen, whose look of astonishment at the revelations was clearly visible.

Mycroft just asked her quietly, "Does this make the case, Doctor Cohen? Sherlock, what you've just said is a paranoid delusion. It's not real. It's a sign of your deteriorating mental state. We all know what you've been through. It's leading you to make this crazy accusation. It's not true. Father never told me anything about what you've just said. When you're better, you will realise it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and shook his head. "You are  _so_  predictable. I thought you might try denial. So, I went out and got the _evidence_. It's in a safety deposit box, and, no, I won't tell you where, just in case you try to abuse your powers for personal purposes. A copy was lodged with a solicitor, I will instruct him to send it to you. It's _real_ , Mycroft; you can't use your favourite tactic of having me declared mentally incompetent every time I resist your efforts to imprison me."

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but I don't believe you." Mycroft turned to Doctor Cohen, pinning her with his gaze. "Paranoid delusions are part of his psychotic depression. We've been here before, Doctor, you know what to do. If for some reason, you find yourself unable to sign the papers by the end of the week, I will call in another psychiatrist for an evaluation."

He turned to John and tapped the power of attorney still lying on the table. "This piece of paper is just that; a piece of paper. If you really want to challenge my decision, you'd have to go to a tribunal. Think of the attendant publicity and the damage that would cause to Sherlock. If his mental instability becomes public, his drug abuse- he'd never work again with the Yard, and your little blog wouldn't produce enough private cases to keep him happy. If you are even remotely considering taking this to lawyers, you should know that the wishes of the nearest relative- and one who has legal guardianship- tend to be favoured over an appointed outsider. And I would ensure that his capacity to make a legal agreement was called into question. You won't win, and I'm sorry that you've been dragged into this. And no matter what you do, in the final analysis, if I have to use security legislation to keep him safe, I will."

He turned back to face his brother. The mask of calm was back in place. "Sherlock, this is  _my_  facility, and you won't be leaving until I say so. Get used to it. Section 3 gets you 28 days of assessment and treatment, and then we can reapply for up to a six month extension." With that, the minor official in the British Government picked up his umbrella and left the room.

John watched him go, and then turned to Sherlock.  _What a mess_. Mycroft was right- a full frontal assault in the courts would end up hurting Sherlock more than his brother.

"Doctor Cohen, you brought a laptop with you, I presume; could you please bring it here now?" Sherlock's voice was tight, determined.

"What for?" Esther was watching him warily.

"Because my brother may want to undermine your faith in my sanity, but I can prove what I said, if you will do the courtesy of giving me access to the internet."

She was gone only a few minutes. In the interval, John just said "Well, that didn't go exactly to plan, did it?"

"Round One, John. Don't let him talk you onto his side. I'm not delusional."

When the laptop arrived, Sherlock almost snatched it out of Esther's hands and fired it up. "You'll need my password," she said.

"No I won't." And within seconds, he was tapping away, logging into the internet, and then totally focused on what he was doing.

John looked at Esther. "I don't know about you, but I could do with a cup of tea. Shall I get us all one?" Esther nodded; Sherlock didn't even look up.

By the time he got back, precariously balancing three cups of machine tea, Sherlock was showing Doctor Cohen something on the laptop. As he came into the briefing room, he heard "…and the file cannot be copied; if you try, it will self-destruct."

He just put the tea down beside Sherlock, and took off the top. Without even looking up at John, Sherlock just picked it up, drank a sip, and carried on talking to Esther, over her shoulder as she read something on the screen. John smirked.

"It took me six years to assemble the evidence. The file contains interviews from three of the lab team that were involved; actual testimony, and written statements notarised. I managed to track down the medical records assistant in the hospital where Mycroft was treated, and got the truth. It will stand up in court, if necessary. They were willing to talk about it because now, of course, it's all legal and almost routine. I flattered them into thinking that they were all pioneers bravely challenging the boundaries of research."

Esther looked away from the screen and up at Sherlock. "Would you really be prepared to go through with this in public?"

"Mycroft has given me no choice. I don't care what other people think of me; I do care about being free." The tall brunet shook his head, "He's done this once too often; I won't let him get away with it again."

She folded her arms and gave him a good, hard look. "And what happens if you just force him to switch tactics- to use security legislation to hold you?"

"I'm banking on that being a last ditch effort, because it would hurt his reputation as much as mine. That's always been his tactic, a crazy brother is easier to explain away. To admit that he's got a brother who is a security risk will give ammunition to those who resent his authority."

Sherlock paused, took a deep breath and ploughed on. "That's what gets me about all this. It's not about  _me._  He's been pushed into this ridiculous idea of locking me up by Moriarty and he doesn't even realise it. I'm not fighting him just for my sake. Mycroft's stubbornness is making him vulnerable. He doesn't understand Moriarty, who is just going to run circles around him. It's going to cost Mycroft everything- his reputation, his career, maybe even his life. He's being stupid. And if he expects me to sit on the side-lines while it's happening, well, I …." He stopped for a moment as a frown formed, and then he went on to finish "…won't."

Sherlock looked back at the screen and then pressed his hand over his eyes. Esther said quietly, "photophobia?"

"No, an aura. I'm getting a migraine. Of all the times….." He groaned.

Sherlock reached out blindly for the table top, and when his slender fingers touched the wood, he leaned heavily. "Hmm."

"Bad?"

"Yes."

"I'll get some paracetemol- do you think you'll be able to keep tablets down?"

"Doubt it." He was standing with his eyes closed, clearly in pain. Esther took another look, and asked John to take Sherlock back to his room as quickly as possible.

"Wait." Sherlock seemed to struggle to find his words. Frustrated, he muttered, "aphasia...anomia... _annoying_." He breathed deeply, then "Take the ..." he gestured vaguely toward the laptop  "the...that...Don't… let it out of your sight." He took a deep breath, and tried to carry on, but his voice had dropped to a whisper. "Get out...tonight…promise…tell... the..." There was a long puase, broken only when he finally blurted out "solicitor...send file to Mycroft. Promise…."

"OK, Sherlock, I promise; now keep your eyes closed and just go lie down." She nodded to john, who led him out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note- so this is my take on why Sherlock's reaction to his brother is as extreme as it is- I mean why else does Mycroft think Sherlock calls him his "arch enemy"? And is this at least one reason why Sherlock would think that Mycroft is quite so obsessive about keeping an eye on his little brother?


	16. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a warning- meltdowns are not pretty.

Early the next morning, John popped his head in and found Sherlock up, and about to start shaving.

"How's the head?"

"Better. The migraine went away about three o'clock and I got some sleep. Still feel rather weird, but that's to be expected, I suppose."

"I'm going for a walk; I'll be back in about a half hour." John didn't tell him that he'd be walking with Doctor Cohen.

Twenty minutes later, when Nurse Saunders went in with Sherlock's breakfast, she was delighted to see him on his feet, with his dressing gown on. She said a cheery "good morning", put the tray down on the bedside table and opened the window blinds on the bright morning sunshine. She didn't notice his wince at her words, nor the fact that he turned away from the window quickly. "Oh, nice to see the headache's gone. Just the sort of fine day to make you hungry, isn't it?" She looked up more carefully at the quiet figure. There was something odd about his stance. "Sherlock, are you all right? Come eat your breakfast."

There was no reply, and no movement from the man. Her brow furrowed, "Come on now, it's getting cold." She came up beside him and put a gentle hand on his arm.

Sherlock exploded into action, his arms flailing back at her as he lunged away. His right hand caught her shoulder, spinning her around from the force of the blow and tipping her over backwards in surprise. She cried out as she hit the floor and landed badly on her bent wrist. He hurtled towards the door out to the corridor, banging up against it as if stunned to find that it wouldn't open. He roared, "let me out of here!" When the door refused to budge, he smashed his fists against it. His blows were completely uncoordinated. It was as if he had forgotten that it had an electronic lock, and it might have been laughable if he wasn't red-faced and absolutely hysterical with rage.

Saunders got up slowly, wincing as she brought her wrist close into her body. She kept an eye on him as he beat his fists against the door. She pushed the emergency call button by the bed, knowing that it would bring help, even if there was no one at the nursing station watching the CCTV screen. She drew up her professional pride, and decided that she couldn't just let her patient hurt himself.

"You have to stop that now, Sherlock." Her voice was firm and loud enough so he could hear it over the terrible racket he was making against the metal door. "You're going to hurt yourself, and having a tantrum just isn't going to help." She moved into the centre of the room and tried to control her voice from shaking. "This sort of behaviour just isn't acceptable and you know it."

Sherlock spun around, as if hearing her for the first time. But his gaze moved right over her with no more recognition than if she was another piece of furniture. His eyes landed on the meal tray by the side of the bed. He snarled and crossed the room to grab it. She dodged away from him in shock as he hurled it across the room at the door. The noise of breaking crockery and the clatter of the tray, and its utensils on the floor only seemed to enrage him more. A mixture of porridge, maple syrup and spilt tea slid down the door as the electronic latch released with a whine, and Agent Thompson burst into the room.

Sherlock tried to dodge him and the two men struggled for a moment. Thompson clearly did not want to hurt Sherlock, only to restrain him. The patient was not handicapped by any such scruples, and he fought like a banshee. Stunning the agent with an elbow to the face, Sherlock kicked as hard as he could against the man's bent knee, which obligingly dislocated with a crunch. When Thompson staggered, Sherlock hit him with a solid punch to the chin, and the agent was out for the count.

Sherlock grabbed at the closing door, but missed the handle, and it shut with a definitive clunk, re-engaging the lock. As if he could not believe it, Sherlock kept pulling at the handle. He was screaming out something that Nurse Saunders could hardly make out, but it sounded like "you bastard, let me out now!" over and over again.

His tirade was interrupted by a bout of hacking coughs that left him doubled over in pain, but before she could react, Sherlock staggered over to the bathroom door and threw it open, barging in, as if it offered a new avenue of escape. She looked on in horror as her patient realised that there was no way out of the room. He gave a strangled cry of disappointment, and then caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. It stopped him completely for a moment. Then he lashed out with his right fist and smashed the mirror into dozens of pieces that crashed to the floor. He gasped, stood stock still for a split second and then crumpled into a heap on the broken shards of mirror.


	17. Dealing with the Consequences

John was enjoying his walk alongside Esther Cohen, in the grounds surrounding the facility building. It was a lovely sunny morning, and she had suggested the fresh air would do them both good. The grey-haired psychiatrist was also in an upbeat mood. "Sherlock was right, you know; getting away from here last night was a real tonic."

They walked away from the building some distance, and he relished the exercise. He'd been cooped up for more than three weeks since the pool incident, first at Baker Street, then at the hospital and now here in the medical building, so he strode out, stretching his muscles. Doctor Cohen might be in her sixties, but she was fit and kept in synch with his brisk pace. John finally couldn't hold back asking her what he'd wanted to ask when he first saw her car returning this morning. "Did you review the file? And did you ask that solicitor to send Mycroft a copy?"

She didn't break stride, and her answer was equally decisive. "Yes, to both questions. And, yes, John, as unbelievable as it sounds, he's telling the truth. Well, in every way but one. I don't think that Mycroft knew, whatever Sherlock's father might have told him."

John was both relieved and shocked. Relieved that his friend's outburst wasn't a sign of delusional psychosis, but aghast at the implications. "What kind of a father tells his own child something like that?"

"Richard Holmes saw Sherlock as merely a means to an end- his first son's survival. He could have helped Sherlock gain self-esteem from being a 'saviour sibling'; instead he used it as a way of denigrating him as nothing more than spare parts. Mind you, I am not surprised. He never showed any sign of affection for Sherlock in my presence, saved all of that for his first son. Maybe that's why he didn't have the guts to tell Mycroft- afraid that it might damage Mycroft's own self-belief in his infallibility."

John was still digesting that thought when their walk was nearly over. They were less than a hundred yards from the front door. Reluctant to return, he stopped. John wanted to know her opinion about the argument between Mycroft and Sherlock, and the open air felt more private somehow.

"It was pretty awful stuff, John" Her face showed her disappointment with how things had gone. "Sherlock's often rude to his brother, but I've never seen anything like that. He wanted to hurt Mycroft, really hurt him. I've never seen Sherlock truly malicious. He can say things unintentionally hurtful, and he isn't afraid of using his honesty as a weapon when people are nasty to him. But, this was different. He's been sitting on this for years, and must have thought it was a trump card. For all those years he said nothing, thinking that Mycroft's interest in his welfare was purely selfish. I wish he could understand that it wasn't the case, and give Mycroft some credit for that."

She continued, "How was Sherlock's migraine this morning?"

"I checked in on him early. He seemed OK, was up, shaving, and said it had gone, and that he'd managed to get some sleep."

John had done little last night but stare at the ceiling and think about the latest round in the battle between the Holmes brothers. "I'd like to think their fight might help to motivate Sherlock; sort of reverse psychology, making him more committed to the rehabilitation programme, if only to prove Mycroft is wrong."

She gave John a fond smile before answering. "I wish I could be as optimistic as you are, John. I can understand why Sherlock responds so well to you; you are on his side, and I'm sure he knows it. That is really so important; he's never had someone like you before in his life. Sad to say, even if Mycroft eventually concedes the truth of Sherlock's revelation, I don't think he's going to let him out anytime soon."

The phone in John's pocket vibrated, interrupting. He pulled it out and frowned. "It's Toulson. There's an emergency, we've got to get back right now." As he looked up, he could see Agent Rothson waving at them from the front of the building.

He was running by the time he got to the top of the stairs, with Rothson beside him and Esther bringing up the rear. They burst into Sherlock's room to see a scene of utter chaos. Toulson was leaning down checking the pulse on Thompson, who was sprawled unconscious on the floor. Doctor Patel was examining Nurse Saunders' wrist, which was visibly bent at an odd angle and swelling. John took it all in an instance, his eyes scanning the room for the one person who was missing. Toulson saw it and gestured towards the bathroom. "He's in there. He attacked both of them and then went in there. I've left him for you, Doctor Cohen; if he can take down an agent, I'm not letting any of my staff near him. I've sent Nurse Compton for a strong dose of Haldol, and Rothson can try to get near enough to him to administer it."

John and Esther reached the bathroom door together and she warily pushed it open. Pieces of mirror glittered up from the floor as did splatters of red blood. "Oh, Christ, Sherlock what have you done?" she whispered. John stepped beside her, his shoes crunching on broken glass. In the corner of the bathroom, between the basin and the shower, Sherlock was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, rocking to and fro, his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. His dressing gown was half off of one shoulder, and there was a growing puddle of blood under his right hand which held a shard of mirror.

As he instinctively reached for his friend, Cohen grabbed his arm. "Don't touch him, John." She whispered this, pulled him back out of the bathroom. She turned to the others in the bedroom. "Listen to me very carefully. I want all of you apart from John out of this room right _now_. No talking, no arguing, no noise- just get out immediately. Once you're out there, I want you to turn off the corridor lights, and any equipment at the nursing station. There must be no noise of any kind within fifty metres of this room."

"What are you doing, Cohen, have you taken leave of your senses? That man just attacked two people. He needs to be restrained and sedated immediately." Toulson was angry but his loud objection made Cohen livid. She walked straight up to him and leaned in to where she was only inches from his face. Quietly, she said through gritted teeth, "I am dealing with an autistic patient who is in serious meltdown. He is sitting in a room full of broken glass, any piece of which he could use against himself if you don't follow my instructions to the absolute letter. I want you to prepare a syringe of a low dosage of haloperidol with 3 mg of lorazapam, as well. Knock quietly (and I do mean quietly) when it's ready. How much of this is actually your or your people's fault we will discover when I get a chance to review the tapes, but in the meantime, you all must leave  _right_   _now and do as I say._ "

"John, could you please close the blinds, turn off the lights and shut the door behind them when they go?" She reached very slowly into the bathroom and switched the lights off. Sherlock was still rocking quietly, but now that the others had left the room, John could hear his friend muttering. When he had done what Esther asked, he came back to stand with her at the bathroom doorway, looking at his friend with stunned disbelief. Following her lead, he whispered his question. "Do you understand what he's saying? It sounds like…what? Is it French?"

She nodded, and whispered back into his ear. "Yes, it's something his mother taught him when he was little; it's a rhyme to help him re-establish control. It's actually a good sign, John. Left alone, he might actually get out of this himself, but with that glass in his hand, and Toulson being stupid, we are just going to have to sedate him, unfortunately. I don't know what happened here, but as always with Sherlock, he is more of a threat to himself than to anyone else."

There was a gentle knock at the door, and John went to answer it. The syringe was handed to him by Nurse Compton, who looked worried. John didn't even thank her, but glanced down the dark corridor, pleased that they seemed to be putting into effect everything that Doctor Cohen had asked to be done. He shut the door quietly and returned to Cohen, who had cleared a little path through the glass on the tiles, so she could crouch down beside Sherlock. The doctor checked the syringe was ready, tapping it to release any air bubbles, and then handed it to her. She was quietly clearing away as many of the mirror shards near to Sherlock as she could reach, and John helped. She began to speak to his friend in a very soft voice, slowly with lots of pauses. "Sherlock….you've lost control….we need to help you get control back…I'm going to… give you something ….it will help you control things." If she was lucky, repeating the word control might penetrate.

It was as if he didn't hear her. He just kept rocking. The muttering stopped, and then his head went down further, as a series of hacking coughs ripped through him. He cried out from the pain and Esther did not hesitate but plunged the needle into his arm, right through his dressing gown. Less than half a minute later, the rocking slowed and he slid over into John's waiting arms. Esther breathed a sigh of relief. "Now the hard part begins."


	18. Re-assessment

"There, can you see it? That must have been the trigger." Esther Cohen and John were reviewing the CCTV footage showing Sherlock's meltdown. While Sherlock slept off the effects of his sedation, Robert had demanded a case conference. In the facility's briefing room alongside Toulson and Patel were Nurses Compton and Smith. Nurse Saunders was having her broken wrist set. The camera recording they were all watching showed Sherlock returning from the loo with his face creased with pain. "The drugs he's been on lead to constipation and with his anal injuries, the pain must be excruciating. The migraine was only the tip of the iceberg"

Toulson stopped the tape. "I don't care  _why_  he went berserk Doctor Cohen, I just want to know why you haven't signed the section notice yet. The injuries to the two people who tried to stop him are plain, and you yourself said that he was a risk to himself. That fulfills the two criteria needed to section him. Why are we going through this charade? The man is clearly mentally ill."

"I'm not convinced, Doctor Toulson. What I think we saw was an autistic hypersensitive adult pushed past his limits. What you don't understand is how different Sherlock is from you or me. He finds it easier to understand us than we do him. So, a little empathy on your part might have avoided this whole fiasco."

"I don't understand your point, doctor, so you'd better explain yourself in terms that  _medical professionals_  can work with." He was making his distain of her psychiatric analysis clear.

Annoyed at his snub, she replied tartly, "OK, a crash course then- sensory processing disorder for dummies. To start with, he will smell  _everything_  – the perfume the nurses are wearing, the detergent used to wash the hospital sheets, the disinfectant used to clean the floor, the toilet bleach. He'll smell his own body odour and how it's changed because of the drugs he's been on- and he'll  _hate_  that. I'll bet he could name the brand of shampoo you use, Doctor Toulson, not to mention how ineffective your deodorant is. Those bed sheets? He knows the exact fibres involved and the thread count, be certain of that. His skin can feel things that you've never even considered before. The normal hospital gown was torture to him, all rough synthetics, with plastic polymers that might make washing easy for a hospital but scratch the hell out of a hypersensitive's skin. Even in silk or cotton, it's too loose- so he can't even block it out by tight pressure. Every time he moves, it's like rubbing his skin with a wire brush."

"And then there is his hearing. Did you know that the florescent lights in his room and down the corridor emit a high pitched whine that his ear can pick up even though ours can't? He can tell the difference between a mobile phone that's on even in silent mode and one that's off; his hearing is that acute. He will hear every footstep along the whole length of the corridor, every time an electronic door lock works on both his floor and the one below, because mechanical noises carry further. He hears the nurses talking at their station. To him what you call the quiet hum of the air conditioning is as distracting as a car horn.

Her face told the assembled medical professionals what she thought of their shock at her words. Exchanging a more knowing look with John, she continued the lecture. "Hypersensitivity is heightened when the patient is subjected to chronic pain, which is what he felt even before he regained consciousness. Every waking moment since then he has been inundated with sensory data. Sherlock is a sensory savant, Doctor Toulson. His unique skill lies in making deductions about things based on that data. But, in his current state, the NSAIDs interfere with his ability to manage the data, whilst doing almost nothing to alleviate the pain. That means he can't manage the data-storm that he is being subjected to, so meltdown is likely. If we hadn’t drugged him ever since surgery, he might have had a chance to delete some of the worst of this sensory overkill- but those drugs means he can’t control his memory like he’s used to. That’s enormously frustrating for someone as finely balanced as he is. We’ve tipped him over the edge."

Esther Cohen reached over and punched the play button. "Let me walk you through this, step by step." The tape showed Sherlock stopping and then a shudder ran through him. He shook his head, then glanced out the window. His head snapped back as if he had been slapped, and he raised a hand to shade his eyes. "Yep- first stage photophobia."

The audio recorded a sharp gasp from Sherlock and he took another few unsteady steps to where he could reach the blinds and snap them closed. He suddenly staggered sideways, but tried to keep walking, turning to the wall and rested a hand against it. He closed his eyes and thumped his forehead against the wall repeatedly. "And now he is trying to ground himself. In a meltdown, he first loses his vestibular sense, which controls balance, and then proprioception, or the sense of where his body is in space."

The team watching then heard the electronic door release, and Nurse Saunders came in with her cheery 'good morning.'

Esther tutted. "Unfortunately for Sherlock, that was the worst thing she could have done; a loud voice will have caused him acute physical pain. And the pain drowned out any chance of his understanding what the words meant."

The nurse uncovered the breakfast meal on the tray and flicked open the blinds. Doctor Cohen just groaned. "Oh dear, let's heap on the bright light and now the smell of cooked food- just what he didn't need."

They watched as the nurse tried to talk him into eating breakfast. "He will have been experiencing nausea even before she brought the food in," Esther sighed, as John watched the nurse walked over, reaching out a hand to touch Sherlock's arm. Esther couldn’t hide her dismay; "Let's just put the icing on the cake, shall we? Add touch to the mix and what do you get?"

The explosion of Sherlock's reaction startled most of the people around the table, but not the psychiatrist. "He will have experienced that touch as intense pain, inflicted by someone his senses tell him is a threat. So, my guess is that next he will try to get rid of the thing that is now hurting him the most- the scent from the breakfast tray." The medical team watched as Sherlock hurled the tray against the door in a great clatter and crash. "His senses are just overwhelmed and every additional stimulus is just too much, leading to yet more pain and terror."

Sherlock didn't even look at the nurse who was now on the floor cradling her wrist. "He has no idea she is even there, or that she was hurt. His senses are so overwhelmed he can't see or hear her as a human being; she’s just a piece of furniture." At that point, he grabbed his head, and staggered to the door, bashing on it with his fists. "Fight or flight ensues, he just wants to escape it all," she said sadly.

The door opened and Thompson rushed in, grabbing the detective's arms. "So, fight it is." She looked down and shook her head. "In the struggle, no doubt, Sherlock's broken and cracked ribs would have been shifting. Have any of you ever felt deep bone pain? No? Didn't think so. Even a neurotypical person would find it excruciating. For Sherlock this far gone, shifting broken bones creates a neuropathy that would be pure agony." Thompson gets hit with the flailing elbow, grabs Sherlock around the waist instinctively, subjecting the broken ribs to yet more pain. Sherlock's reply is the kick to dislocate the agent's knee and then the blow to his jaw.

The psychiatrist continued her running monologue. "So, he can't get out one door, sees another door and hopes for the best". As if he could hear her, Sherlock on the recording staggers into the bathroom and is brought up short by his own reflection. "He may, just, be able to recognise that this is a reflection. And if he can, then it is a true sign of not only his genius but actually the depth of his control that he hasn't lost it totally by now. He can still manifest his terror as rage, so he strikes out at what is actually causing him the pain- his own brain." The sound of the mirror breaking almost masks the cry of distress that escapes from Sherlock as he collapses into a heap on the floor, crawls into the corner between the basin and shower, before starting to rock and mutter.

"I'm sorry Doctor Toulson, but that is not a mentally ill man in that footage. It's the sign of a patient whose treatment needs are not being respected. I'm not convinced that it was a psychotic break, so I won't sign the sectioning papers. Not yet. Not before I see just how much damage this episode has done." Esther finished defiantly, and switched the recording off.


	19. Counter-attack

"Oh, sweet Jesus; now he's really done it." Jim clapped his hands in glee. "Alert the media, the great Mycroft Holmes has really and truly blundered."

He'd sent Moran away for the day, once the news came through that the body dump had gone exactly to plan. "Want to have some 'me time', Seb. Need to gloat for a while, and just wallow in it. Yumm, too nice for words. Don't want to share. So, bugger off, there's a good boy. Come back tonight with something nice to eat and I will open a bottle of best bubbly."

Moran looked at his boss, with a slightly bemused yet wary smile. "Are you sure? Don't want an audience to applaud your genius?"

Jim sneered. "You? Well, you're not much of an audience, my little Tiger. You're as subtle as those bullets you enjoy putting onto people. Me, I'm more of an  _artiste_ , and I want to relish every little detail, every brushstroke of perfection. So, shoo…get away with you."

Once the other man was out of the door, Jim just erupted.

"Hallelujah- the waiting's over, and the iceman's come out to play! Can't wait to turn up the heat and just watch that fat snowball melt."

He reached for his phone and punched three numbers up. The first one, he decided he'd just text.  _I own you, so you don't even get the courtesy of a voice mail._

**14.43 Time to pay up, handsome. Ask an awkward question the next time you're in the Cabinet Office's Committee Room A, pretty please. Just who was Jason Wright, and why was he wearing dirty laundry?**

The next one was a bit more important, so he did the decent thing. Used the app to disguise his voice, but left him a message on his answering service. Nothing like the personal touch to get someone to do your dirty work. "Next item on the agenda: MI5 perimeter security incident; did a certain minor official's issuance of a D notice constitute a breach of protocol against press freedoms for purely personal purposes? Make sure the minister is well briefed."

The third message would be like pulling the pin from a grenade and rolling it across a certain board room table in a particularly important part of northern Virginia, otherwise known as Langley, home of the CIA. This one was deposited in an e mail sent from an unidentifiable account through a supposedly non-existing internet provider service that very, very few people knew about. But he knew that the right person would see the message and know just what to do with it. "Surveillance of cell compromised by British failure to contain MOD codes; links to recently deceased J Wright are being withheld from the special relationship."

Now that last message- well, it should be the cat amongst the pigeons. Nothing like riling up the politicos by threatening the special relationship. He expected the gun-toting, trigger happy CIA to oblige with a few broadsides against Mycroft's rather generous backside. Jim sniggered.  _Such fun! Now if only I can find a way to get Sherlock out to play, then I will really turn up the heat._

He sat back on the white leather chair, put his feet up and closed his eyes. A contented sigh, and then he started the walk into his mind vault. Each little drawer had something special in it- the memory of a particularly daring jewellery heist, a long and complicated extortion campaign in a particular Eastern province of a central African state- that one was worth remembering if only for the surprise on the face of the Chinese official when Jim had asked for his payment, in the form of the name of the new "general" of the Black Lotus Tong. He had some business in Xinxiang and needed an entry point.

Today, however, his walk went into the inner vault, the one with the time lock. He didn't go in here much, wanted to be able to savour these rare assets carefully, lest the pleasure wear the value down. Each time he relived one of these memories, they lost a teensy bit of their value for him. He needed to replenish this stock. The right wall of drawers, double locked of course, was reserved for his fallen angels. He enjoyed the recruitment process- each one a special tailor-made effort, designed to find that person's weakness and exploit it until the person would do his bidding- without anyone else being the wiser for it. There were judges, bank chairmen, politicians, company chief executives, sometimes even a president or two (actually, no, make that five, after catching the Frenchman at it with his new mistress that his first mistress didn't know about).

Jim had a special box on that wall reserved for Mycroft Holmes. He made his first deposit there now with the memory of Justin Wright and the sight of his body on the street in front of Thames House. Now that he had provoked that minor British Government Official to come after him, he knew he'd be able to make another deposit soon.

On the left wall were the drawers containing his own network. Thirty two countries, two hundred and fifty drawers filled with his hand-picked people, each one with that special something that Jim had used to bind the person to him. He smirked as he walked by Sebastian Moran's. Did he hear a little tiger in there growling? That had been very naughty of him to do what he did to Sherlock. And soon, sometime soon, Jim would exact his price for it. But, he didn't want to think about that now.

He kept walking until he came to the far wall, the small side of the long thin rectangle of the inner vault, with only a dozen drawers. Here he kept his most important assets, the ones that had most personal meaning to him. The first drawer in top right corner was filled with Carl Powers- the first is always worth a special memory. He'd had to take a pair of trainers out of there in order to woo Sherlock. He hoped it would be worth it. There was also a drawer for his dear younger brother whom he had decided to destroy- just because he could. He had learned how to mess with people's heads from that one, and from start to finish, he had been so thoroughly wrapped up in it that he had lost his sense of boredom for almost three years. There was a bag of cremated ashes now in that drawer, a reminder that even the most fun projects do, eventually end. He had learned too from that exercise to consider the longer strategy, to lengthen the process so as to extract the maximum amount of pleasure from it.

There in the middle of that far wall was a drawer reserved for Sherlock Holmes. He opened it and fumbled around in the material there. It was a surprisingly full drawer, including little bits of delicious pleasure- the Van Buren Supernova conversation, when the tall detective had begged for extra time lest the little boy become a victim. Pushed to the edge, he'd delivered and Jim shared his joy at solving that puzzle. He fished in the drawer again and decided to re-live the pleasure of watching Sherlock eat Wagu beef and drink fine claret when they had lunch at Jim's Docklands flat. He re-ran the image time and time again, extracting the most pleasure he possibly could. Tiny details came back, the scent of Jim's soap on Sherlock's skin, after he had washed his face and hands. The certain knowledge that the brunet had used cocaine at some point in the previous 12 hours, to prepare for the meeting. The sound of his shirt sliding across that pale skin as he turned away from the penthouse view up the Thames. The tone of his baritone voice as he scathingly referred to Sebastian as the hired help. So many things to enjoy. It made him hungry with anticipation for what was coming.  _I'm going to need a bigger drawer._


	20. Depression

John walked down the corridor towards Sherlock's room. He nodded his good morning to Thompson, who seemed recovered from yesterday's debacle.  _Probably injured his pride more than anything else._  He noticed the bulge of a knee brace under the agent's trouser leg.

He saw Doctor Cohen leaning up against the wall outside Sherlock's room, obviously waiting for him. "A word, please, John before you go in?" He nodded his agreement, and they moved down to the end of the corridor.

"Not that he will be interested in listening in, John. I am afraid that what you see when you go in there is going to be a surprise for you. This is the Sherlock I know, the one you don't."

"Care to be more specific?" John was more than a little cautious.

"I think it's all caught up with him. We've been messing around with his blood chemistry, and you need to realise that. To start with, sensory overload prompts avoidance in a big way. Then add to it the chemical cocktail he's had- the heroin and morphine when he was abducted, ten days' worth of fentanyl. Then rapid detox, and naltrexone tablets. Then the haloperidol and lorazepam yesterday. He's never handled either of those last two well."

"Then why did you use them?"

"No choice, I am afraid. Drugs aren't tested for their effects on neuro-atypicals, John. Pharmaceutical companies just test on mass populations. I've seen Sherlock have paradoxical reactions to both drugs before, high doses make him even more aggressive and agitated, when normal people would be passed out on the floor. There was a fifty-fifty chance it could have happened again yesterday, but it was better than not trying anything. Until drugs get designed to match specific gene structures, we're stuck with them. And, lest we forget, he's also had antibiotics, antivirals, salbutamol and atrovent, too. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, has tested these drugs in terms of their individual impact on someone with sensory processing disorder. And God only knows what the collective interactions are likely to produce."

"He's a mess, John. On top of the emotional stress that Mycroft just inflicted on him, all those chemicals; well, he's just shut down. When he does make contact, it will most likely be a combination of anxiety, depression and emotional reaction. Pain and depression affect the same area of the brain, the limbic region- and that's where emotions are generated, too. He's had more than his fair share of pain, both physical and emotional over the past two weeks. With no hope of getting out of here until his brother says yes, then I think he's spiralling into a major depressive episode."

Ester's face wore the most serious expression John had seen on her. "And I'm going to bet that Toulson and Mycroft are both going to say for that reason it's time to get him sectioned and they will then wheel out the usual treatment plan - high doses of strong anti-depressants. In the past, I've reluctantly gone along with he rehab regime, because I didn't know any better. That deep depression takes Sherlock through paranoia and, I am sorry to say, hallucinations when it gets really bad. The other three times that he's been through it, it wasn't the drug detox that took the time, it was the mental breakdowns that followed. Mycroft's containment strategy may actually cause the problem, rather than solve it."

John had no idea how to react to all these revelations from Esther. He was still trying to square what happened yesterday with the man he knew and respected, the person he thought of as his best friend. None of the violence or the bizarre actions of yesterday seemed to fit the man he knew.

So, he just nodded and led the way into his room. Sherlock was sitting up in bed. His knees were drawn up to his chest, and he had rested his head on his knees, hiding his face.

"Sherlock". John said it quietly.

There was no acknowledgement at all. There was something so miserable in the way that he was sitting, that John found himself wanting to put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He knew that Esther believed touching a hypersensitive was the wrong thing to do, but John felt the need to comfort his friend, so he did. There was no reaction at all, not even a flinch.

"Does it help to know that I believe you? That Doctor Cohen believes you, too?"

That made Sherlock look up, but he couldn't quite meet John's eyes. It didn't matter. The doctor could see first the despair in those grey green eyes, and then even that slowly faded into blankness. Utterly devoid of light, his eyes just focused on ….nothing. Then his head sank back down onto his knees, hiding his face again in his arms.

He'd seen Sherlock down before; the post case crashes, the ennui of days when nothing interesting appeared to take hold of that amazing brain. He'd suffered through enough shouts of "BORED" to last a lifetime, and learned an entire dictionary of synonyms- tedious, dull, tiresome, etc. But never had he seen the detective so hollowed out and totally empty. It was unnerving. None of that energy spent swirling around a crime scene; even when stretched out on the couch deep in his Mind Palace, there had always been a sense of thrumming activity going on in that brain. Now, Sherlock looked vacant.

Esther frowned. She took Sherlock's left wrist and lifted it, before releasing it. His hand fell as if it were totally disconnected to the rest of his body. She breathed a sigh of relief; "at least he's not catatonic, well, not yet."

It annoyed him that she was talking about him as if Sherlock couldn't hear. "Esther, can you leave us for a while?"

She hesitated for a moment, but then she nodded and left.

Now alone, it was John that hesitated. He knew that psychiatrists would have standard therapy protocols for someone so deeply depressed.  _And none of them have worked in the past, so why should they now?_  John tried to see things from Sherlock's perspective. Through little fault of his own, he had arrived at his own version of hell.

The short man sighed, kicked off his shoes and clambered onto the bed beside Sherlock. He didn't touch him, but sat close, unconsciously adopting the same pose as the detective, his knees drawn up and his arms resting quietly on them. He didn't look at Sherlock, just sat there for a while lost in thought, looking out at the hospital room.

"Another fine mess we've got ourselves into," he eventually said, quietly. "According to Cohen, you're beyond paying attention to anything, so I'm probably talking to myself here. But on the off chance that you are listening, there are a few things you should know."

"First of all, I'm here for the duration. However long it takes us to convince Mycroft to come to his senses, I'll be here. I believe what you said. I haven't read the file. I don't need to. If you say that's what happened, I believe you. Except, I don't think your brother knew about it. If your dad was the absolute shit that he sounds like, then it would be just up his street to mess with your head by saying that Mycroft knew. God knows, that brother of yours scares me at times, but I don't think he could act what I saw yesterday. He's wrong, but he really does think you're better off in here. We've just got to find out how to prove to him that he's wrong. Either that, or I'm going to have to download The Great Escape, and figure out where to start digging our tunnel."

He realised that Sherlock's breathing had changed. His head was still down on his arms, his face hidden, but John got the feeling that he was listening.

"Somehow, I've got to convince the medical team here, and Doctor Cohen for that matter, to leave you alone for a while. Just give all those drugs a chance to clear your system, so you can think straight again. Maybe I can wave my power of attorney to stall them a while before trying to pump you full of anti-depressants. I can be pretty stubborn when I want to be and I won't stop until I convince them. God knows, you don't need another doctor, after all you've been through at their hands."

Silence. John took his hands away from his knees and put them down on the bed either side of him. It was a gesture of frustration at his own inability to help his friend.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to think too far ahead. But, he couldn't help it. After the pool incident things had just gone from bad to worse, and he'd felt more alone than at any time since meeting Sherlock. His friend had withdrawn, tried to kick him out of Baker Street, and then when John refused, Sherlock had fled to the streets of London and back to cocaine. And, now, his friend was faced with the prospect of indefinite detention. It was a depressing scenario. He wouldn't abandon him, but he honestly had no idea how to break through the despair.

Finally, John sighed. His friend wasn’t the only one to feel depressed. He kept his eyes closed, because he could feel the prick of tears forming.

"Sherlock, I just can't do this on my own. I need that brain of yours firing on all cylinders if we are to convince these idiots you're alright. And that's only the start, because we then have to take on first Mycroft and then Moriarty. So, do me a favour. Don't disappear on me. Don't give up. Please, Sherlock, I need you on my side in this."

Silence fell between the two men. John's eyes were still closed and he wondered what Dr Cohen would say if she was listening to him making a fool of himself. Then on the hand he had dropped to the bed between him and Sherlock, he felt the touch of several long slim fingers. He looked over to see a pair of grey green eyes watching him, with concern.

"I'm …here, John. Not quite  _all_ here, but I'll try."


	21. First Steps

Esther Cohen pinched the bridge of her nose, and scrunched up her eyes. She was tired, but determined to finish the briefing.  _How to compress six years of CBT training into one morning's crash course_ ?

When she opened her eyes, she looked at John, who was waiting patiently. "Cognitive behavioural therapy, John; it's the way to get him out of the depression. It's a way to talk him through it, get that brain focused on making sense of what he is doing. He has the emotional skills of a fifteen year old, gets petulant, and shouts 'you're all idiots' when he gets upset by things he doesn't understand. And right now, he doesn't understand that he is his own worst enemy."

"Are you sure I can do this? Wouldn't it be better for you to use your training?"

"All the expertise and qualifications in the world won't help, if Sherlock doesn't trust me. And he trusts you, so, sorry, John, it has to be you who makes the first step. Ethically and professionally, you can't treat him as if he were your patient. But if you are the only person he's going to talk to, then you have to know what you are doing. You're his friend, not his doctor, but you can be more effective if you know what he needs, therapeutically speaking."

John's brow wrinkled with worry. "I'm no expert; I could do more harm than good."

She shook her head. "Don't be an idiot." When they both realised how much like Sherlock that comment was, they both started giggling. When they were able to stop and catch their breaths, Esther went on. "You connect with him, John, so already you've probably stopped him from a major depressive episode, maybe even catatonia. He's been surrounded by people all his life who talk  _at_  him, telling him what to do, or how what he does is wrong. Or, he gets hectored by shrinks who keep asking him  _why_  he thinks the way he does. Very few psychiatrists get autism, even fewer understand sensory processing disorder."

She gave a philosophical shrug. "I have to be honest. I've been trying to treat him, get him to really engage with therapy for almost twenty years, and he's never done it. Not properly, anyway. He's too damn smart. He only gives what he has to in order to tick a box; he knows the things we use to define whether he has 'improved' enough to release him. It's manipulative, and the principal reason why so many of the psychiatrists decided he was a sociopath."

John frowned. "I've never bought that label; he uses it as a way of pushing people away."

Esther smiled. "That's probably why you reached him this morning when none of us could have, by appealing to him to help you. Because he  _cares_  about you, it made him respond. That's not manipulative. He was worried about you being distressed. Don't underestimate the power of that fact. Sherlock has never attached to someone before- or at least not since his mother died. It's one of the PDD-NOS symptoms- inability to respond to the needs of another. And yet, he did so for you. That's _amazing_. Because of you, he's abandoned one of his key defences. I don't care if you aren't qualified, and I don't want you to 'treat' him, John. I want you to help him, as his friend."

"How do I do that?"

"Keep going as you are. Trust your instincts. Get him to face the behaviours that make him so bloody difficult- doing things without considering their effects on you, for a start. Hating his brother for something he never even knew. That's a big one to overturn, because he's built his whole relationship with his sibling since he was twelve around the assumption that Mycroft was just using him. I know different. Sherlock is Mycroft's weakness. Really, I can read Mycroft better than I can Sherlock, and I know that it has pained him no end for years, because he thought Sherlock blamed him for being 'the chosen one', the one loved by their parents. He feels  _guilty_ , John. A really deep, painful guilt that he is somehow to blame, and Sherlock has just told him that he is, indirectly speaking. He didn't know, and wasn't responsible for the actions of his parents, but when he realises this is not a paranoid delusion, he is going to be devastated. Not that he will ever show it. He's not my patient, but I have gotten to know him over the years. _Both_ the Holmes brothers are very wary of showing any kind of emotional attachment- they've come to believe it is a weakness. Put two people like that in a relationship and it's really tough. If Sherlock can forgive him, then there is a chance of reconciliation. If not, I don't know how they are ever going to repair their relationship."

She leaned back from the briefing room table and gave John a firm look. "I have always believed that empathy is something just beyond Sherlock's comprehension, but how he responded to you shows that he is capable of it. You need to see if he can do it for his brother."

"That's a rather tall order, given how Mycroft has locked him up in the past and is threatening to do it again now." John let his scepticism show.

"If anyone can, John, you can. Now stop stalling and get in there with him. He needs you." That was delivered with a smile.

oOo

John knew that it was counterintuitive- take a hypersensitive person teetering on the edge of depression and subject him to more stimulation. It didn't make sense.  _So when has Sherlock ever made sense?_

So, John went in, told Sherlock to get dressed; they were going for a walk. For a couple of moments, Sherlock looked at John puzzled, as if he couldn't comprehend his friend's instructions. Then without another word, he got up and disappeared into the bathroom. John sat on the edge of the bed, hoping that he'd made the right decision. When he heard water running and then an electric razor, he was relieved.

The tall dark haired man walked alongside the short blonde one, taking the circular path that wove between the facility buildings and then to the far side of the compound. If the gait of the taller man was not as fluent and smooth as it usually was, then John chose not to comment.  _At least, he is walking with me._  Agent Rothson had tried to stop them, arguing that security required the patient to remain in the building; John's only reply was to 'borrow' the man's coat and hand it to Sherlock, saying he would need to wear it to stay warm.

"It smells, John," Sherlock had complained.

"Be quiet and put it on; you need the warmth, and I forgot to bring your coat. Feel free to hate me for that mistake, but just put this on." Then he had stared down the agent, who wanted to at least accompany them. "No one knows he is here, Rothson; so, you tagging along five paces behind will only attract attention. Just stand down."

Sherlock had not spoken since the two of them had left the building, but John could see how much he was responding to the autumn sunshine, the trees' colour and the crunch of fallen leaves beneath their shoes.

After nearly ten minutes came confirmation. "Thank you, John. It's not the same as walking through the gates and home to Baker Street, but the fresh air is appreciated."

A few dozen steps more, and then Sherlock stopped. John looked at his friend with concern.

"I want to go home, John. I want to go back to Baker Street. I want to lie on the couch and stare off into the distance, lost in my Mind Palace. I want to play my violin. I want to pick at a pile of cold case files, and get a call from Lestrade about a fresh, interesting case. I want to hear your footsteps coming up the stairs, hear you potter about in the kitchen making tea." He raised his hands to his head and took in a fistful of curls in each hand. "If I don't get back to that soon, I just don't know…what's going to happen to me." There was a tremor in his voice.

Something in John just nearly broke at seeing his friend so distressed. At the farthest point from the medical facility, there was a bench, and John headed there. He watched as Sherlock sat down carefully, checking to see if his friend was finding the expedition too tiring. He wished he had words that could make it better.

Sherlock was looking down at the ground, but he seemed calmer. "I'm fine. I'm sorry if I just let it get on top of me. If I can just get out of this…limbo and back to normal life, I will be alright."

"So, how do we convince Doctor Toulson and Mycroft of that fact?"

Sherlock leant forward and then rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work out a kink. "Touslon will take his cue from Mycroft. The trouble with my brother is that no matter what happens, he assumes that I am not fine, that I've never been fine, and that I never will be fine. But, the longer he keeps me locked up, the harder that is."

"Is that what you meant when you accused him of becoming like your father?"

Sherlock looked at John curiously, then nodded. "Yes, I suppose I did. Father always assumed the worst of me, and now Mycroft does, too."

John spotted his chance, and decided to risk raising the issue. "However much their behaviour might be similar, do you really think that Mycroft is motivated by the same animosity that your Father had?"

Sherlock considered that statement for a while, and replied quietly. "Actually, their reasons are different. Father locked me away when I was ten because I reminded him of the wife he had just lost. He didn't care enough about me to be bothered otherwise. After I was sent home, he spent time overseas less to get away from me, more to forget his loss. Mycroft's motivations are a great deal more self-serving."

John shook his head. "Sherlock, I think you're being unfair there. I watched his face when you told him about the leukaemia; that was new to him, I am sure of it. "

"Even so, even if he knew nothing about that, he still wants to lock me away to avoid embarrassing him."

"Or to protect you?"

"That's what _he_ would say, as a way to dress it up."

"Is it fair to assume the worst of him? Isn't that what you accuse him of doing to you?"

Sherlock didn't answer.  _In for a penny, in for a pound._ John continued, "I know how you act around your brother. Been there, watched the floor show, could recite a few choice pieces of dialogue I've heard you two throw words at each other like grenades. But what do you actually  _think_  about him? I'm not talking about the ritual abuse. No, if you were to set aside your feud, and look at it as if the World's Only Consulting Detective were seeing two other people, what could you deduce about your relationship?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he had said something so extraordinary. "You want me to _deduce_ my brother, as if I didn't know him? Can I do that?"

"If anyone can, you can, Sherlock."

He sat back and let his eyes focus on the tree line in the distance. "Looking at the two of us as a pair of brothers, I'd be able to deduce instantly that Mycroft is the lucky one, the perfect one, John, and a second son would have always had that impossible standard to live up to- even a normal child would find that hard. The elder was so obviously loved by both parents. He was good at school, smart, successful, people respected him, relatives and friends of his parents noticed him and praised him. I wouldn't have to have been there at the time, the deduction is easy because you can just  _see_ it in all that confident smugness now. And anyone observing the relationship for the first seven years of the younger son's life would have concluded that he cared about the older one, too. He was a perfect older brother and the younger would have looked up to him. He was right in every way that the other was wrong, and the younger was painfully aware of it, but it didn't make him hate the older one, just feel bad about himself- something at least one parent was happy to reinforce."

He broke the deduction for a moment, and just said quietly. "Whatever others may think, John, it's not like I wasn't aware that there was something wrong with me."

He got up and started pacing. "Any idiot could deduce that the older brother would "go far". And he did. He left home when the younger was seven and only came home at holidays or family events, when everyone would fawn all over him with praise about how wonderfully he was getting on. An outsider watching over their childhoods would see those same people who were praising him would have no words at all when they saw the younger son. Without anything positive to say, a disabled child is a ghost, hardly mentioned in polite company, because to do so would cause the family embarrassment about their 'failure'. So when the older brother wasn't there, the younger would be even more of a social handicap to the husband and wife."

John almost flinched at the cold factual tone as Sherlock described how others would have seen him; to admit even in the third person voice that he was 'disabled' sounded so….strange.

Sherlock's had fallen into that emotionless but rapid delivery that characterised his crime scene descriptions. "Deduction tells us what happens when the mother dies. The younger one is blamed by the father for ruining their lives. The elder sides with the father, watching his mother grow ill from looking after the younger and die. It would be natural for the older to blame the younger."

Something in John just squeezed tight at those words.  _He blames himself for her death. He thinks Mycroft and his father both blame him, too._

Sherlock stopped, and struggled to find words. He turned his head away. "This is pointless; I can't deduce this as if I wasn't a part of it." He stood up and paced in front of John. "It's ridiculous getting worked up about all that old stuff- talking about it is just a waste of time. Emotion like this- it serves no purpose, John. I don't like it; it's distressing. Can we please stop doing this?" He jammed his hands into the pockets of the borrowed coat and stopped pacing. He was just staring at the razor wire fence at the end of the compound.

John shook his head. "Did you resent Mycroft leaving you behind?"

Sherlock sighed, "Do we  _really_  have to do this?"

"Yes."

"Oh, all right. Did I resent Mycroft? No, not really, I am aware that I'm not like other people, John, have been since I was about four, I think. I understand my brother. He saved himself. Why on earth wouldn't he? He would have been better off if he hadn't gotten sick and they came up with the idea of having me. Even after I was born, he'd have been better off if I'd died in infancy. He didn't need me; the leukaemia never reappeared, and he's been healthy as an ox since the first treatment. All I was, all I am, to him is a burden, an embarrassment, a reminder that he isn't perfect, the reason why his family fell apart. Am I surprised that he left me behind? Not at all; it's understandable. I didn't get it when I was twelve, but I do now."

John's eyes widened. Sherlock was putting himself in Mycroft's position, and  _showing empathy._  Drawing the wrong conclusions, but at least trying to see the world from another person's point of view.  _There goes another one of those diagnostic indicators of sociopathy and PDD._

Sherlock was now pacing again. "He goes off to boarding school just before my seventh birthday. In Mycroft's first year at university, mummy dies, and father puts me in an institution, and says I'm crazy. By the time Mycroft graduates at 19, I'm being looked after by a horde of faceless strangers, and father is away on business trips all the time. Why should Mycroft want to go home? I'm nothing to him except a social embarrassment. He spent his summers doing internships and work placements that set him up for the future- as he should have."

"Then he gets a job that suits him perfectly and sets out for an exciting life overseas. When he's 22 Father dies and suddenly Mycroft finds himself burdened by a brother he hardly knows, who is resentful, non-communicative and …not normal. He has no skills or experience to deal with an ordinary teenager, let alone me. Within a year, I'm into drugs and living homeless and well on the path of self- destruction. Why the hell he didn't just leave me alone to get on with it, I will never understand."

John reached up and grabbed Sherlock by the wrist, stopping his pacing and pulling him down beside him on the bench. "Then let me explain it to you in simple terms, because you are being an idiot." He took both wrists in his hands, as if trying to ground Sherlock. "No wonder Mycroft worries about you constantly, Sherlock. You have no idea that he loves you."

Sherlock looked at him, with total incomprehension. "Love is a vicious motivator- a catalyst for more crimes than hate is. But even I know that if Mycroft were to have such a ridiculous feeling as 'love' about me, then he has a very odd way of showing it."

John thought about it, and decided to go with his gut instinct. "Maybe, Sherlock, that's because you are not easy to love, now and probably even more difficult when you were younger."

The wrinkle between Sherlock's eyebrows deepened. "I don't understand, John."

"No, I don't suppose you do."

"To invest any emotion in me is pointless; Mycroft isn't sentimental. If he isn't locking me up to protect his own future health, then he is doing it out of some…I don't know…warped sense of family duty or to protect his reputation and power base. There is nothing in me worth loving. He knows this. The very idea of Mycroft doing something so stupid is just….absurd, impossible…ridiculous."

The doctor sighed, and then looked away from those grey green eyes. "You're an idiot, because you don't know how wrong you are about this." He then got up and just said "Let's head back now. I'm getting cold, and you're still recovering from pneumonia, so keeping you out here is probably not a good idea." The two men walked back in silence, each deep in their own thoughts.


	22. Anticipation

 

Irene couldn't help but let a little smile slip out as she read the text.

**12.23 pm Tally Ho! Find your riding crop, dearie. I've set the foxes running, and the horses and hounds won't be long now. Get yourself ready; you're my whipper-in! JM**

She'd read it three times just to enjoy the feel of it. There was something decidedly delicious as well as dangerous about working with James Moriarty. It was an alliance she accepted in order to reach Mycroft Holmes, but she was finding the consulting criminal to be something of a chimera. In a fairly innocuous body ( _Not bad looking, but a strange combination of youthful allure with a dark Irish twist_ ) sat a brain that combined both brilliance and malicious evil. Gender aside, just  _so_  not her type. But, if consorting with such a person was what it took to get her closer to her goal, then she would endure it. If the game played out the way that Moriarty promised, she would be able to cut her own deal with a certain minor official of the British Government in exchange for a king's ransom, and the anonymity and security to be able to enjoy it. No more clients to satisfy; she would at last be her own mistress. It was a prize worth sitting down with the very devil himself, if necessary.

Since the day the Irishman revealed that official's name, she had been doing her homework, preparing for the game that was about to begin.

Mycroft Holmes. Batchelor, only forty but carrying the weight of responsibility and authority of a man twenty or more years older. Not unattractive, but rather camouflaged behind all that bland English respectability and padded by too much time behind a desk. Living alone, no apparent spouse, lover or even casual assignations of either sex. Spotless, untouchable, unmovable. One of the current Prime Minister's "Eton Mafia", although Holmes was old money, not new, so would not have deigned to spend his time at Oxford in the circle of such ingénues who were hungry for money, fame and fortune. Holmes' aristocratic forefathers would distain that; they were more than just country gentry, but not so aristocratic for it to be a handicap with politicians and military people who got nervous around Earls, Dukes and Marquises.

Her informants had been probing quietly and she was building up an image. From a young age comfortable in the back corridors, working with all the right people in the intelligence, security and political liaison worlds, Mycroft Holmes was noted as something of a prodigy, and had accumulated mentors and useful contacts the way she did her designer wardrobe- with taste, discretion and a lot of hard thought into what would work best in different situations.

"Oh, Mister Three Piece Suit," was what HRH called him, when she posed languidly on the bed, begging Irene to do her worst. "He's the go-to man when something a little risqué happens in the Firm. He's in with just about everybody, especially Granny's Equerries. A new one shows up every three years; but each and every one them sings Holmes' praises. I sometimes wonder if he hand picks them? Personally, I think he's kind of creepy. I mean everyone in the Household dresses a little old fashioned- as you know," here the princess rolled her eyes and stretched out her legs encased in cutting edge designer jeggings "but this guy looks like something out of the 1950s. Acts like it, too."

"Is that because you've had a run-in with him, darling?" Irene caressed the princess's thigh with the riding crop, and the young woman giggled.

"Nope, but when I was a girl I did fancy his little brother a bit. Met him at a Buck House Garden Party, where he decided to pull a stunt. Now  _he_ was interesting _._ Tied up two of the corgis together and then set a cat loose. You should have heard the shrieks as everyone tried to get out of the way. Knocked over a tea table and all. Frantic footman chasing them down the flower borders. Very funny."

"How old were you?"

"Seven at the time; the boy was about 9 or 10, I think. He thought I was boring; I thought he was fascinating. Had a funny name- Sherwin? Sheldon? Can't remember now- anyway he was  _persona non grata_  at the Palace thereafter."

Irene had put out feelers re the younger Holmes, too. "Eccentric." "Mad as a hatter." "Flamboyant" were just a few of the labels. Irene considered how Jim Moriarty's eyes had changed when he talked about the Iceman's brother. Called him "the Virgin", and not for the first time Irene wondered if the Irishman lusted after Holmes Minor, and wanted to seduce him just for the fun of it as much as to get Holmes Major onto his side of dark angels.

Mycroft Holmes could prove to be a tough nut to crack. She knew that he had no vices that she could use to reach him– too careful, too determined to avoid anyone having anything as leverage against him. If not asexual, then celibate, or careful enough to ensure that he never got caught in a compromising position. For a man so respected, Mycroft was never described by anyone as their best friend- probably equally careful in that area. No real friends, no lovers, no one who could be broken or leveraged to endanger his position.

Irene sighed.  _What does he really like?_ Her skill was to figure out how to use someone's desires against them, but without finding a way of spending time in his company, she was finding it hard to identify what made Mycroft tick.

Jim was convinced that the elder could be brought to heel by using the younger. Family loyalty was something that Irene did not understand. An orphan at a young age, without siblings, she had made her own way in life. Lovers, yes, colleagues, clients and contacts, of course, but friends were exceedingly rare. Not enough control, and for her, control was everything.

She had met Jim only once more since their tète-a-tète at the Savoy. This occasion was in a little restaurant in Knightsbridge. Very exclusive, it didn't even have a sign outside. She was taken upstairs and down a carpeted corridor to a private dining room. The meal was exquisite, as was the wine, and she had dressed for the occasion. So had he.  _A bit of a peacock; if he lusts after the Virgin and it isn't requited, this could be dangerous for Sherlock Holmes_.

She'd spent the evening sussing her erstwhile 'partner' out. Well educated but born and raised with that peculiar kind of chip on the shoulder of the Irish, who for centuries had been made to feel inferior by their British neighbours. A perpetual outsider, but so clearly a genius at what he did that the criminal world was happy to pay whatever it took to get him to play on their team. He was reputed to have turned down fabulous sums because the work involved was too 'boring', and anyone who attempted to cross him learned their mistake. He enjoyed making a spectacle of such people. "The modern day equivalent of scalping, my dear. It does wonders to strike fear into the tribes of crims out there."

She knew that his reputation was well deserved, and if that made her just a little nervous, well, she admitted to herself that there were very few men that could do such a thing to her. A dominatrix doesn't feel fear often, it should be said. So, when it came as a result of her contact with Moriarty, Irene was both repelled and attracted. A bit mesmerised.

"Your task is a relatively simple one,  _mein liebchen_. Just worm your way into the affections of the little brother. Dazzle him with that smile of yours. He's an innocent. Find out what he  _likes._  By what I've been able to find since our last collision, he and that doctor pet of his are 'just friends'." Here he did that annoying American thing of using his fingers to make quote marks in the air.

He took a sip of red wine, and then continued, "so all that public school supressed sexuality must be ready to burst out all over. Unleash him- or, if you think he would prefer it, leash him, and make him play doggy for you. Whatever rocks his boat."

As they finished dessert, the Irishman giggled- "How appropriate- Eton Mess." He licked the spoon clean from the dessert of strawberries, crushed meringue and fresh cream. "I know that you haven't been able to break the code of the MOD man's little indiscretion. Of course, you could just hand it over to me, and I could do it. Umm, say yes; pleeease, pretty please? You know you'd be handsomely rewarded."

Irene was annoyed, but she hid it well. She knew that Jim's undeniable genius took a mathematical direction. It was true- she'd seduced one of Germany's best cypher analysts to no avail; he couldn't figure the code out, but had recommended she contact this "consulting criminal in London; he'd be able to do it."

But, she didn't want to give the code to Moriarty unbroken. That would be admitting defeat. And once she did, the Irishman would have no further need of her. His initial reaction to her news that she had the code, and then his delight about the Holmes "project" as he called it led her to the realisation that the two were linked. He wanted what was in the code to damage Mycroft Holmes; that was almost certain. She needed to know what it was, so she would buy herself a little insurance. Spending time in the company of the Irishman made her wary; she needed something to hold over him if she was to avoid being eaten alive once he had want he wanted from her.

Over coffee and a glass of brandy, she purred, "I know what  _you_  like, Mister Moriarty, and it involves playing games with the Holmes boys." She watched his face very carefully, as she prepared to make her next statement. If it was true, then his reaction would reveal it, no matter how much he thought he was in control. She was a master in measuring non-verbal clues; they told her everything she needed to know. "So, I know  _you_  could break the code, but do you think that Sherlock Holmes could, too?"

"Of course not."

He said one thing, but the slight dilation of his pupils said something else, and it was all Irene needed to know. "But surely you'd like to see him try and fail? Wouldn't that just prove to you how much cleverer you are than him? Even if he fails…"

"When, not if, my dear. He's bright, but not that gifted in the mathematics department. That's my home territory. He just likes playing with crime scenes." He waved his hand dismissively.

"As I was saying, even if he fails, you can still use the fact to embarrass Mycroft Holmes. And that's what this is all about, isn't it."

Jim raised his brandy glass in a mock salute. "I have to say, Ms Adler, I like your style. As soon as Sherlock Holmes finesses his way out of his brother's clutches, you and I can get to work. Won't be long now." He smiled that slightly manic smile of his, and she shivered, with both fear and anticipation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: A "whipper in" is a person employed by a Hunt to manage the hounds. An essential part of "horses riding to hounds" in pursuit of a fox. Ah the joys of living deep in rural England's village life is that I learn all about such things first hand. Oh, and HRH is Her Royal Highness, a title of "the Firm" otherwise known as The Windsors, of whom Elizabeth is Queen. "Buck House" is Buckingham Palace, as referred to by the current crop of younger royalty. And, yes, I have actually attended a Garden Party at Buckingham Palace. The Queen was in attendance, but no corgis, alas- that would have been more FUN!


	23. Pressure

Her second journey into London gave Esther Cohen the time she needed to prepare for her latest interview with Mycroft. On her first trip, before Sherlock's meltdown, she'd sent him the file, a copy from Sherlock's solicitor, with a handwritten note that simply said, "I believe him; it is something your father would do, and I've seen the evidence. It may go some way to explaining why things have gone the way they have between the two of you. He needs you now, on his side."

She was not surprised either that the news of Sherlock's subsequent breakdown and the depression that followed had reached Mycroft; Toulson would have been on the phone within minutes, she was sure.

So, she was ready when the black car arrived unannounced this evening at the medical facility and the driver simply said, "You're wanted." She'd been preparing for the inevitable conversation.

She'd made one attempt during the day to discuss things with Sherlock, and regretted it, because it had not gone well.  _He thinks I'm the enemy_ , she thought ruefully, part of Mycroft's conspiracy. It was a paranoid delusion, but one that she understood all too well. You didn't have to be mentally ill to see that the reality of being confined in rehab against his will before would make him fearful of history repeating itself. And the meltdown plus the depression made his mental condition an issue, which he knew in the past had been used against him.  _Is it paranoid to be wary of Mycroft?_

When John had brought Sherlock back into the facility from their walk, she had been delighted to see her patient dressed, up and about, seemingly out of his depression. But, his mental state was fragile, alternating between being belligerent and sarcastic in her presence, to being uncertain and tentative with John. Given how bad he had been, she was grateful for small mercies, but unsure about the future.

When she was eventually ushered into the library of Mycroft's South Eaton Place townhouse, he was standing by a lit fire, with a distracted look on his face. He gestured to a chair, and once she had sat, he lowered himself into its companion seat on the other side of the fire. "Can I offer you tea, coffee or something stronger?" She decided that he might well be in need of a drink, so she asked for one, knowing that the perfect host in him would mean he would join her.

After depositing a generous glass of brandy for her, and a single finger of malt whisky for himself, he waited for her to start.

She decided to cut to the chase. "You've seen the file, you know that I think it's true. So, what does it mean to you?"

"A surprise, obviously. I had no idea, I can assure you, whatever Sherlock might believe."

He was running his finger over the edge of his glass, a sort of nonchalance that she found...interesting. She decided to provoke him. "He was told, Mycroft, told about it by a father who loved you very much."

That made him look at her sharply. "And now I am faced with the fact that because of that, a father I once respected was in reality a manipulative, scheming, horrible man. Someone who could be cruel beyond measure to a vulnerable, defenceless child. Whatever I think about the ethics of what my parents did, for my father to tell him, and the way he did it, was nothing short of totally despicable."

"Mycroft, this isn't new. You've known about your father's rejection of Sherlock before this, just not the detail of what he had done."

"And you think that makes it easier to bear? Interesting. You must explain to me the psychology of that, Doctor Cohen." Here he gave her one of those smiles, the one that moved all the right facial muscles, but didn't touch his eyes.

"How you react to this news is going to determine a great deal of how Sherlock reacts to you."

Mycroft steepled his hands under his chin and  looked into the fire. Almost distractedly, he said quietly, "what is almost worse than the facts is that Sherlock has believed that I knew for all these years. It explains much of his hostility towards me. I don't understand why he hasn't said anything before now."

"Could it be that he loves you?"

Mycroft snorted. "No, he has no concept of what that emotion is."

"Do you love your brother, Mycroft?"

He turned and scrutinised her face as she lifted the brandy glass and took a sip.

"What do you think, Doctor Cohen? You're the psychiatrist."

"I think it's difficult to admit to anyone what you feel, because you think to do so is an admission of weakness, and that someone in your position cannot afford such a weakness."

"That doesn't answer the question, does it?"

"Actually, it does. As you do love your brother, please let him go. Locking him up is not helping him, Mycroft. I don't think I have ever understood him as well as I do now. He really believed you knew about the donor sibling thing, and that made you his enemy. But, he _never_ abandoned you after he was seventeen, do you realise that? He could have disappeared for good, but he hasn't. He lets you in, as much as he can, given the circumstances. The only thing you do that pushes him right over the edge is locking him up. You weren't there to stop your father doing that to him when he was ten years old, and I am not sure he has forgiven you for that."

"I was seventeen at the time, Doctor Cohen, and my mother had just died. At first, I believed my father when he said it was the best thing for Sherlock. I'm not a medical professional, so how was I to know any different? And, even if I could somehow have come to such a conclusion, how could I have done anything to change my father's mind? You know I tried to find him as soon as I could- after all, it's how I met you. He needs to know that I didn't know anything about this donor business."

"You may be surprised to find that on that issue you have a friend in John Watson, who has been telling Sherlock that you didn't know, and that your behaviour towards him has not been motivated by what Sherlock believes to be pure self-interest."

"He won't understand that. For Sherlock, relationships are simply transactional- what's in it for him, and therefore everyone else has to be motivated in the same way. If I didn't know about the donor idea, then my behaviour will be inexplicable to him, so therefore I must have known. The science of deduction is not always right."

Esther took a sip from the brandy, to give herself time to consider how best to get both of the Holmes brothers to stop the behaviours of a half a life time. "There is a difference now. You need to stop thinking that Sherlock is incapable of changing. I've seen something remarkable over the past week or so, something that I suspect you've seen but not necessarily understood."

Mycroft looked at her, his curiosity piqued. "What's that?"

"John Watson."

Mycroft looked back at the fire. "He's not in a sexual relationship with my brother."

She said patiently, "I  _know_  that, Mycroft. That doesn't mean he isn't in a relationship. The first one of Sherlock's adult life. For the first time, he cares enough about someone other than himself to alter his behaviour. And in addition to attachment, he is showing evidence of empathy and a willingness to take into account the needs of others, none of which you thought he'd ever be capable of feeling."

"Caring is not an advantage, Dr Cohen. Not for Sherlock. He doesn't know what to do with it, that emotion, so he ends up trying to push John away, in order to protect him. That actually led him toward drug use again, and to the mistaken belief that he had to take on single-handedly the person who was responsible for threatening Watson. In short, caring led him to yet more problems, endangering his own life and that of others. For that reason alone, section 3 applies."

She looked down at her glass, sad that Mycroft would have drawn such a conclusion. "I don't agree; I think it could be his salvation. You need to stop thinking of him as an emotionally stunted sixteen year old who cannot be trusted. He's grown up, Mycroft, and you need to stop wrapping him in cotton wool."

"That's easy for you to say, Doctor Cohen. You don't have to deal with the consequences. If he were …ordinary, then one could be more tolerant. But, his genius is vulnerable to being used by others. And their abuse of his talents would have repercussions that you just don't understand. Taking a position like the one you are advocating is …dangerous. Not just to him, but to others, LOTS of others."

He finished his drink, and she realised that he had made up his mind about something. "I don't have the luxury of taking this decision based on personal motives, Doctor Cohen. If you resist my request to sign the sectioning papers, then the alternative is to find someone else who will or to rely on security legislation to hold him. That will damage irreparably his future prospects of working with the Metropolitan Police and on private cases, because I can't keep that quiet. It will get out and destroy his reputation, his livelihood, and the life that he has carefully constructed over the past ten years. We both know the likely consequences- depression, drugs and eventual breakdown. "

Putting his empty glass down, he continued, "As a medical professional, you need to do what is in the best interests of your patient. Forcing him to forge a relationship with another psychiatrist will remove almost any chance of therapy working. Locking him up under the Prevention of Terrorism Act will deprive him not only of his liberty, but also of contact with John Watson and any treatment for his psychological problems. By refusing to sign those papers under the Mental Health Act, you will ensure the worst possible outcome for him, so I urge you to reconsider it  _very carefully_."

She put her half-finished brandy down on the same table, with an appreciably greater degree of force. "You don't take prisoners, do you, Mycroft? You're using a form of emotional and professional blackmail to get me to section him."

"Whatever it takes to keep my brother safe, Doctor Cohen." With that he stood up and said calmly "the driver will take you back to the facility tonight. I will see you all at the end of the week. Thank you for your time tonight, Doctor Cohen. I hope it has been a useful discussion for you."


	24. Firefight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: this is the penultimate chapter. Hang onto your hats, the Holmes brothers are going at it, and John is in the blast radius.

 

As he had promised, Mycroft returned to the facility at the end of the week. The same cast assembled in the briefing room. Mycroft pushed the papers he had taken out of his briefcase in front of Doctor Cohen. "This is a section 3 request for treatment and assessment over the next 28 days. Sign it."

Esther looked at him carefully, then shook her head. "I can't do that, Mycroft. You've had a chance to digest Sherlock's file; you know I believe him. The best solution is to let him go."

"Your decision is unfortunate. That file is irrelevant to the need at hand, which is to secure Sherlock in safe custody. Whatever happened in the past is not relevant to today. I thought professional integrity would lead you to realise that by not signing, you are relinquishing any chance of being personally involved in treating Sherlock. Your decision limits his chance of recovery. But, so be it. I will find someone who can help him. You can leave now, your services are no longer required. My driver will return you to London immediately."

She had guessed it would come to this, but it didn't make her any happier at being dismissed. She looked over at Sherlock; she'd stay if he wanted her to. The tall brunet just shook his head and said, "it's ok. You've done what you can. Go." She sighed, got up and left the briefing room.

 _Damn, damn, damn_ , thought John. Watching her leave made John more worried than ever.

Mycroft stood leaning over the large oval table, resting his hands either side of the papers. His face was set, and his hard eyes bored holes into his brother. "I'm not prepared to argue with you, Sherlock. This is it. We've both been here before. When you were sixteen, I gave you the same choice: accept at a fixed term rehab or be sectioned. I am doing it again now. Either way, you are here for the duration- a minimum of another four weeks."

John tried to deflect some of the heat. "Doctor Cohen won't sign your papers, Mycroft, because she doesn't agree with you."

"Then I'll find another psychiatrist who will," he snarled, taking his eyes off Sherlock just long enough to glare at John, before returning his gaze to his brother.

Sherlock wore normal clothes. He had insisted on wearing them again, so he could meet Mycroft as an equal rather than as an invalid. "Like father, like son, Mycroft; trying to  _buy_  an opinion that suits your agenda?" Sherlock's jibe was mildly delivered, and he sat nonchalantly on the edge of the briefing room table, his arms crossed, swinging his left leg idly, as if casually amused at his brother's anger.

Mycroft flushed, and he spat out his retort. "I'm beginning to understand his frustration with you. You bend these medical people around your finger; no wonder the word 'manipulative' features so often in your pysch evaluations."

Sherlock stood up and faced his brother directly. "Cheap shot from a man who has elevated manipulation into a national asset."

His face darkened, as he warmed to his theme. "Mycroft, you can't do this on your own. This isn't about  _me_ ; it is about Moriarty. You said he'd eat me alive, well, you'll just be an appetiser for him." He made no effort to hide his sneer. "You don't understand Moriarty and trying to take him on yourself is just doomed to fail. This isn't what you do well, and you've already made a mess of it."

"As if you did any better?" Mycroft's incredulity made his eyebrows rise in disbelief. "You nearly got yourself killed, and didn't even manage to get past one of his hired thugs into the great man's presence. So, excuse me if I think I just might have a better chance without you messing things up or getting in the way. For once in your life Sherlock, just shut up and do as you are told."

"Don't deflect me. You've already tried and failed with Moriarty, haven't you, Mycroft? What was the plan? Try to set up one of your people as a criminal needing a consultant? Saw through it straight away, didn't he? Did your agent survive or is that yet another bit of blood on your hands?"

"Of course, I've been testing Moriarty's defences. No, he didn't fall for the first gambit, nor did I really expect him to. It's about long term strategy, Sherlock, something that you have absolutely no idea about. That's why you're staying put, right here for at least the next month, even if I have to nail your foot to the bloody floor."

Sherlock stifled a cough, and just glared while he caught his breath.

"Who appointed you dictator, Mycroft? Who gave you the right to order me about, imprison me and torture me by depriving me of everything that makes it possible for me to even exist? I've already been here nearly a month, and I am fit to go home. You don't  _own me_ ; just let me go and leave me alone! If I have to I will go to court, no matter how much it damages me, it will also hurt your reputation, too."

"If that's what it takes, then I will see you in court. I'm not irreplaceable. The Government will find others willing to take on my job. But I won't put you at risk, even if it means I have to destroy my reputation or, heaven forbid, tarnish yours. If all that comes out in some courtroom, well that's your choice. Staying alive is more important, Sherlock. And that means you are here for the duration. I know you don't understand it, but it is the right thing to do, and I am going to do it. Somebody has to be the responsible adult in this family!"

The two men were now shouting at each other.

Something about seeing the two of them threatening to destroy each other like this just made something snap inside John.

He'd played doctor long enough; time for the army captain to have a go.

" **Right. That's enough**.  **Stop it right now**." His loud voice carried parade ground authority, and cut across their shouting. Surprised at his outburst, the two brothers paused and looked at him. John took full advantage of their surprise.

"For two geniuses, you are both hell bent on demonstrating your idiocy."

Mycroft looked annoyed, as if no one should dare have the insolence to challenge his authority, least of all John. Sherlock looked confused, and then a little perplexed at John's intervention.

John stood with his arms crossed at the end of the room, between the Holmes brothers and the exit from the room. "I'm not letting either of you out this door until you've buried the hatchet, preferably not in each other's back. If it takes all bloody night, you are _both_ going to realise that neither of you can do this alone. And even together, you won't be enough to take Moriarty down. "

 _I wish I had this on CCTV; I could replay it and show them both how much they are alike._  Mycroft and Sherlock looked affronted; while they might be individually annoyed if John chose one side over the other, now he was casting doubt on their  _collective_  capability.

"Nope- not even together. You'll need me to remind you how much Moriarty is enjoying it every time you let your pride stop you from working together. What he wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall right now, watching you two threaten each other with legal actions- that's mutually assured destruction. He must be having an absolute ball at the moment, because you are both so damned predictable and petty."

Sherlock spoke first, hissing out his displeasure. "I'm not being  _petty_. Mycroft is trying to lock me up and throw away the key!"

John lifted his chin and walked two steps closer to his friend. "Maybe, that's because you seldom give him proof that you can work with him, instead of haring off on your own, trying to show off that you know better than he does. Time to let go of the idea that he knew what your parents did. He wasn't responsible, and you have to stop thinking he was. If you carry on in the face of the obvious truth, then you will be delusional. Crazy people can't be trusted. If the shoe fits, Sherlock...you will have no one to blame but yourself."

Sherlock reacted as if he'd been slapped. "John!" That one word carried his hurt and disappointment.

But John wasn't done. He turned on Mycroft. "And you, you who should really know better- you're equally guilty. A man who prides himself on knowing everything, pushing behind the scenes to make things work for the good of the country, putting all the pieces together. Well, it's amazing that no one has ever told you what an idiot you are for walking away from the best piece of artillery that you've got in the arsenal, all because he happens to be your brother. You have to stop being afraid that he's going to get hurt. You're so wrapped up in guilt about what happened in the past that you aren't able to see that things have changed, and that by working with you Sherlock is more than capable of doing whatever is necessary. If he's being bloody stubborn, you're being equally blind."

"Idiots, the pair of you. And Moriarty is just banking on you two to keep being idiots. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he isn't plotting right now exactly how to keep you both pissed off with each other, divided and therefore less of a threat to him. He isn't stupid, even if you two are."

 _Now I really wish that I had this on camera_. Because both of the Holmes brothers had been stunned into silence by John's tirade.

John decided to press home his case. To Mycroft, he said, "Sherlock is fit enough to go back to Baker Street,  _provided_  that he agrees to continue his recovery there. No cases that involve leaving the flat, not until that bloody cough goes and he regains weight. He doesn't get to decide when he's well enough to take on new cases; I will be the judge of that. But, the  _quid pro quo_  is that you put him back in the loop about what you're doing with Moriarty. In case you've forgotten,  _I'm_  in the firing line here, too, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep us both informed. And, Mycroft, if you actually expect to catch Moriarty, then it makes sense to have both Sherlock and me on your side. You're going to have enough grief from other people about this; you need all the friends you can get."

Mycroft sniffed. "Those 'people' are just the sort who will say that Sherlock needs to be out of the picture because he can't be trusted, and that by trusting him, I am showing weakness."

"And how much do you think Moriarty is behind them saying that? Don't pander to them, Mycroft, you're only playing the game by his rules then."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed at that jibe, but it did make him think.  _Maybe I've underestimated the good doctor; time for a reassessment?_

He was mulling over the idea, when John turned to Sherlock, locking eyes with his friend. "And you, you've got to stop being a prat. I didn't like what happened at the pool any more than you did, but ever since then, you've been just… out of control. Falling back into the trap that says drugs 'help the brainwork' is just brainless, and you are going to promise me you won't  _ever_  try that again. I mean it, Sherlock, drugs are a total deal breaker. To get out of here and back into the game, you're going to have to follow a few rules. Moriarty plays on your recklessness and ego; don't let him. For once in your life, work with someone- me as a start, your brother as a necessity. To make this work, you're going to have to stop carrying around that ball and chain of resentment about what happened to you in the past. Let it go, just bury it somewhere in that mind palace of yours until this little war is over. Without a promise from you that you're willing to follow my rules, seriously? then…well… I might be tempted to sign those bloody papers myself. You do test the patience of a saint, and I'm not a patient man."

Sherlock just looked at him. "Why are you doing this, John? " It was quietly said, a little bit wary, as if he wasn't sure how to interpret John's behaviour.

"Because it's time to choose sides, and I'm backing the Holmes brothers against Moriarty. If that means I have to bash your two heads together, then I will. Both of you scare me witless at times." He gestured over his shoulder at Mycroft. "Him because he has yet to learn to trust us. You because you constantly abuse the trust of those who want to give it to you."

He put both hands onto the briefing room table, as if commanding the room, knowing that he had both of their attentions. "Part of my motivation is self-preservation; I'm more likely to get out of this with my skin intact if you work together; part of it is just the common sense that you both seem to be lacking. I won't choose sides between you, but I will make sure you two work together. That means you both play to  **my**  rules. Is that a deal?" He addressed his question first to Sherlock. The silence fell in the briefing room as Sherlock thought it all through. Finally, he nodded.

The ex-army captain now turned to Mycroft. "And if I guarantee he will follow the rules, will you carry through on your side of the bargain?" This was the harder part; Mycroft's resistance would be more difficult to overcome. If it went wrong, it wouldn't only be his career in ruins, it might be the death of his brother. As the silence lengthened, John decided he had to play his final card. "For Queen and Country, Mycroft; forget he's your little brother for once. Deep down, you know that working together is the best way out of this mess."

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, raising his eyebrow. "I'm beginning to understand your affection for Doctor Watson, brother. Beneath that bland exterior is something …rather dangerous."

He gave his brother a firm look. "Will you  _actually_ do this Sherlock? Will you follow John's rules? Can I really trust you?"

Sherlock's eyes moved to John, but there was no hesitation. "I will, and you can."

Mycroft looked back at John, and then nodded.

For the first time in over three weeks, John really smiled. "Good, that's a bit very good."


	25. Epilogue

He sat back on the white leather chair and put his feet up. He switched on his iPod and pulled on the headphones. Time for a bit of bliss. He needed to turn his attention to phase two- now that Sherlock and his doctor pet had been spotted returning to Baker Street, the challenge was to winkle the little brother out of his house arrest and back into the game.

  
It would need to be good, something that neither of the Holmes boys could resist, but that neither of them would expect. It needed to be a long game- tease it out and Holmes Junior would grow bored and lose concentration, and a game that was played over months would test Holmes Senior's capacity to juggle it with all of his other responsibilities.

What will do to trap them both? Looking for inspiration, Moriarty set the iPod to shuffle. When the Coronation March started to play, a big smile started to grow. Ah, yes, Queen and country. All those little corgis to protect. The Ice Man won't be able to say no; but, as discretion will be needed on this little caper, and his own network compromised and under intense scrutiny, who can he turn to but little brother? Perfect… and an opportunity to unleash Miss Adler on the Virgin. Jim started to giggle, as his imagination went wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> OK- I hear you. Shock, Horror- end of the current story. Obviously, things are unfolding to the Scandal in Belgravia, so in lots of respects the story doesn't "end". I will be continuing the saga in a sequel, called Crossfire, that will be posting from next Saturday.


End file.
